HIGHWAYS  &  BYWAYS 


VALLEY 


•in- 
DO 


LU 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


HIGHWAYS   AND    BYWAYS    OF   THE 
MISSISSIPPI   VALLEY 


BAITING  THE   HOOK 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS 

OF   THE 

MISSISSIPPI    VALLEY 


WRITTEN    AND 
ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CLIFTON   JOHNSON 


Published  by  THE    MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

New  York  MCMVI 

LONDON  :    MACMILLAN    AND    CO.,    LIMITED 


•-.-,.-    • 
Of 

IF> 


Copyright,  1906, 

by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped. 
Published  October,  1906. 


GENERAL 


MOST  of  the  chapters  in 
this  volume  were  first  pub- 
lished in  The  Outing  Maga- 
zine. Other  portions  have 
appeared  in  The  Delineator, 
in  Good  Housekeeping,  and 
in  The  New  England  Maga- 
zine. 


Electrotyped 

and 

Printed 

at  the 

Norwood  Press, 

Norwood,  Mass. 


Contents 


vii 


PAGE 


I.  The  City  behind  the  Levee I 

II.  Mosquitos  and  Alligators          .          .          .          .          .18 

III.  The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  .....        45 

IV.  Spring  in  Mississippi      .          .          .          .          .          •        59 
V.  Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee        .          .          .          .84 

VI.  Travelling  in  Arkansaw  .          .          .          .          .107 

VII.  Life  in  the  Ozarks  .          .          .          .          .          .      1 24 

VIII.  At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  .          .          .          .148 

IX.  Mark  Twain's  Country  .          .          .          .          .160 

X.  The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  .          .          .          .183 

XI.  Farm  Life  in  Iowa          .          .          .          .          .          .201 

XII.  On  the  Minnesota  Prairies       .          .          .          .          .215 

XIII.  New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin   .          .          .          .230 

XIV.  Houseboat  Life 251 

XV.  The  Headwaters  of  the  Great  River  266 


Illustrations 

Baiting  the  Hook     ...  •   Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

A  Worker 2 

One  of  the  Old  Narrow  Streets 6 

Little  Italians 1 I 

On  the  Way  to  her  First  Communion            .          .          .  1 5 

"  Shooting  Craps " l8 

The  Captive 22 

Dragging  an  Alligator  from  its  Hole     .          .          .          •          .27 

A  Camp  in  the  Swamps    .          .          .          •          •          •  3 x 

A  Shot  at  a  Deer 32 

A  Cabin  Window    . 49 

Hoeing  Sugar-cane  .                     .          .          •          •          •          •  5° 

The  Students 54 

In  the  Heat  of  the  Day 59 

High  Water 63 

A  Dugout 64 

Beside  the  "  Bayou  " 68 

A  Landing  at  the  Levee 77 

A  Negro  Cabin .          .  84 

The  Sitting  Hen's  Prison  Coop  ...  .86 

On  the  Porch 91 

Explaining  the  Situation 96 

ix 


x  Illustrations 

FACING  PAGE 

Returning  to  Camp  from  the  Village    .          .          .          .          .107 

Work  in  the  Woodland 113 

The  Fishermen        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .118 

The  Weather  in  the  Almanac     .          .          .          .          .          .123 

Browsing  in  the  Woods     .          .          .          .          .          .          .130 

Going  to  Market     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .134 

Travellers       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .139 

Beside  the  Kitchen  Fire 143 

Making  a  Hen-coop  .          .          .          .          .          .          .146 

Prospects  of  a  Blackbird  Pie        .          .          .          .          .          .148 

In  time  of  Flood      .          .          .          .          .          .          .  157 

Soft-soap        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .159 

The  Stepping-stones  at  the  Ford  .          .          .          .          .162 

Mark  Twain's  Boyhood  Home  .          .          .          .          .          .166 

A  Game  of  Quoits   .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .171 

Afternoon  Comfort  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .175 

Visiting 178 

The  Prophet's  Well 182 

An  Old  Mormon  Doorway         .          .          .          .          .          .187 

A  Garden  Bonfire    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .191 

Calking  the  Boat      .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .194 

Making  a  Willow  Whistle  .          .          .          .          .          .196 

Ditching         .........      205 

Churning  at  the  Back  Door 207 

A  Notice  on  the  Schoolhouse  Door      .          .          .          .          .208 

Renewing  a  Town  Walk  .          .          .          .          .          .          .212 

The  Fascination  of  the  Stream  221 


Illustrations  xi 

FACING  PAGE 

A  Pitcher  of  Milk 225 

A  Pause  in  the  Day's  Labor       ......      226 

A  Rustic  Bridge       ........     228 

The  Upper  Mississippi      .          .          .          .          .          .          .237 

At  the  Back  Door    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .239 

Making  Lye  for  Soft-soap  .          .          .          .          .          .242 

Starting  for  Work     ........      244 

A  House-boat  Dog .          .          .          .          .          .          .  253 

The  News 255 

Fishermen       .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .258 

A  Bateau 271 

The  Forest  Fire 274 

Floating  Logs  down  the  Mississippi  near  its  Source  .          .281 

The  Frame  of  an  Indian  Wigwam        .          .          .          .          .287 


Introductory  Note 

LIKE  its  predecessors,  this  volume  concerns  itself 
especially  with  country  life.  To  the  traveller,  no  life 
is  more  interesting,  and  yet  there  is  none  with  which 
it  is  so  difficult  to  get  into  close  and  unconventional 
contact.  Ordinarily,  we  get  only  casual  glimpses. 
For  this  reason  I  have  wandered  much  on  country 
roads  and  lodged  most  of  the  time  with  the  farm 
families  or  at  the  village  hotels.  In  both  text  and 
pictures  I  have  tried  to  show  actual  life  and  nature 
as  I  saw  them  in  characteristic  and  interesting  sections 
from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  vast  valley. 

The  volumes  in  this  series  are  often  consulted  by 
persons  who  are  planning  pleasure  tours.  To  make 
the  books  more  helpful  in  this  respect,  I  have  ap- 
pended to  each  chapter  a  note  containing  suggestions 
for  intending  travellers.  With  the  aid  of  these  notes, 
I  think  one  can  readily  decide  what  regions  one  would 
like  particularly  to  see,  and  know  how  to  see  such 
regions  with  the  most  comfort  and  facility. 

CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 

HADLEY,  MASS. 


N1VERS1TY 


Highways  and   Byways  of  the 
Mississippi  Valley 


THE    CITY   BEHIND   THE    LEVEE 

THE  country  in  and  about  New  Orleans,  if  it 
was  in  a  state  of  nature,  would  be  mostly 
marshland.  When  it  was  first  settled,  the 
cabins  of  the  future  metropolis  stood  among  weeds  and 
willows  and  rank  swamp  growths,  and  the  hamlet  was 
infested  with  mosquitoes,  snakes,  frogs,  and  alligators. 
Every  time  the  Mississippi  was  in  flood,  the  water  came 
creeping  over  the  land,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the 
inhabitants  began  to  bank  out  the  ravaging  river  and 
attempt  to  drain  away  the  surplus  moisture  of  the  soil. 
As  the  city  grew,  the  levee  was  extended  and  strength- 
ened, and  that  great  earthen  rampart  along  the  water 
front  is  to-day  the  community's  chief  dependence  for 
health  and  for  protection  against  the  vast  destruction 
that  would  be  wrought  by  the  constantly  recurring 
floods.  Whenever  the  water  is  up,  the  city  lies  lower 
than  the  river  level,  and  if  the  stream  gets  so  high  that 
it  threatens  to  wash  over  the  crest  of  the  embankment, 


2     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

there  is  intense  excitement,  and  hasty  bulwarks  of 
sandbags  are  piled  on  top  of  the  levee  where  the  danger 
is  most  serious. 

The  situation  is  strange  and  dramatic.  It  stirs  the 
imagination  and  arouses  the  interest,  and  when  one 
thinks  of  New  Orleans,  the  Mississippi  and  the  stout 
wall  of  earth  flanking  it  seem  the  most  vital  features 
of  the  place.  My  impulse,  therefore,  was  to  seek  the 
river  front  as  soon  as  I  arrived  in  the  city.  There  I 
had  my  first  sight  of  the  giant  stream  of  our  continent 
—  and  what  a  sullen,  murky,  threatening  torrent  it 
was !  The  banks  were  nearly  brimming  full,  for  I  had 
come  in  early  April,  and  the  flood  season  is  ordinarily 
included  in  that  month  and  the  one  following. 

The  water  was  a  dull  yellow  color  and  looked  like 
liquid  mud.  I  was  surprised  to  see  people  drinking 
the  dubious  fluid,  and  I  learned  that  the  riverside 
workers  and  loiterers  had  a  real  relish  for  it.  Some 
would  kneel  at  the  water's  edge  and  dip  it  up  with  their 
hands  for  a  hasty  gulp;  but  most  depended  on  tin 
receptacles  which  were  to  be  found  here  and  there  on 
the  wharves,  and  which  had  usually  done  service  for 
holding  canned  goods.  Each  had  a  string  attached,  so 
that  you  could  let  it  down  and  fill  it  while  standing  on 
the  wharf.  I  was  curious  to  know  how  that  thick  and 
soupy  liquid  tasted,  and  I  picked  up  one  of  the  cans  and 
lowered  it  into  the  water. 

A  man  was  sitting  near  with  a  line  in  his  hand,  trying 


A  WORKER 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  3 

to  entice  some  fish  from  the  roily  depths.  He  noted 
what  I  was  doing,  and  saw  that  I  was  a  green  hand,  and 
when  I  began  drawing  up  my  cup  he  advised  me  to 
empty  it  and  try  again.  "You  got  that  water  right 
at  the  surface  where  it  ain't  clean,"  he  said.  "Dip 
down  deep." 

I  did  as  he  bid,  and,  after  all,  the  water  was  not  bad. 
It  was  palatable  enough  in  spite  of  its  earthy  flavor 
and  slight  hint  of  grittiness. 

The  river  was  streaked  and  strewn  with  scurrying 
rubbish,  and  wherever  along  the  shore  there  was  an 
obstruction  the  floating  trash  caught  in  masses.  A  good 
many  men  and  boys  were  securing  such  of  it  as  might 
serve  for  firewood  and  were  piling  it  on  the  wharves. 
Most  of  them  caught  it  with  their  hands  or  with  poles 
and  ropes,  but  occasionally  a  boat  was  used.  One 
fellow  who  seemed  to  be  doing  especially  well  had  a 
spike-pole  with  a  cord  attached,  and  when  a  stick  was 
a  little  too  far  out  to  reach  in  the  ordinary  way  he  threw 
the  pole  like  a  harpoon. 

I  had  an  impression  I  could  see  all  of  New  Orleans' 
shipping  in  an  afternoon's  ramble,  and  I  kept  on  along 
the  river  northward  until  I  became  dismayed  at  the 
endless  sweep  of  the  wharves.  The  city  is  one  of  the 
chief  commercial  gateways  of  our  continent,  and  the 
wharves  line  the  stream  for  a  distance  of  twelve  miles. 
They  accommodate  the  local  craft,  the  river  boats,  and 
a  great  fleet  of  ocean  vessels  from  the  world  over.  The 


4     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

river  itself  seems  dwarfed  when  the  monster  steamers 
of  the  ocean  plough  through  its  dun  waters.  Perhaps 
the  most  interesting  boats  at  the  wharves  are  the  Missis- 
sippi packets  —  white,  swan-like,  with  towering  smoke- 
stacks, and  a  long  gang-plank  suspended  in  mid-air  at 
the  prow.  Then  there  is  an  odd  medley  of  ferry-boats, 
tugs,  titanic  dredges  clawing  up  the  mud  from  the  river 
bottom,  luggers  with  their  curious  lanteen  sails,  and 
fruit  vessels  from  the  West  Indies,  Mexico,  and  South 
America.  The  flow  of  produce  in  and  out  never  ceases. 

Some  classes  of  goods  go  at  once  into  the  warehouses, 
trains,  or  vessels,  but  others  are  stacked  for  a  longer  or 
shorter  time  on  the  wharves.  There  are  vast  quantities 
of  great,  clumsy  cotton  bales,  rows  of  oozy  molasses 
barrels,  heaps  of  raw  sugar  in  coarse  brown  bags,  piles 
of  lumber,  great  odorous  hogsheads  of  tobacco,  and 
boxes  and  crates  and  bales  of  a  thousand  shapes  and  a 
thousand  variations  of  contents.  But  cotton  is  more 
predominant  than  anything  else;  for  New  Orleans  is 
the  greatest  cotton  port  in  the  world,  and  the  storing, 
selling,  and  handling  this  product  furnishes  a  livelihood 
to  the  majority  of  the  city's  three  hundred  thousand 
inhabitants. 

The  wharves  are  a  working-place,  and  they  are  like- 
wise a  loafing-place.  The  hobbling  elders  and  the  boys 
resort  thither  to  spend  their  leisure  and  feel  the  throb 
of  life  and  watch  the  work  and  the  river.  The  sight- 
seer from  a  distance  is  there  to  witness  the  activity,  and 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  5 

the  laborer  out  of  a  job  who  is  more  or  less  desirous  of 
finding  another  is  drawn  there  also.  If  he  finds  work 
he  becomes  a  part  of  the  busy  turmoil,  and  if  he  does 
not  find  work  he  drifts  about  as  chance  and  momentary 
fancy  may  direct.  Possibly  he  takes  a  nap.  The 
colored  man  on  a  warm  day  can  stretch  out  or  double 
up  almost  anywhere  and  sleep  interminably. 

The  wharves  are  not  without  their  compensations  to 
the  loafers.  There  is  always  something  new  and  in- 
teresting going  on,  and  stray  eatables  are  often  to  be 
had  perfectly  free,  especially  if  fruit  steamers  are  un- 
loading. For  instance,  when  a  banana  vessel  discharges 
its  cargo,  you  will  see  the  stevedores  in  half  a  dozen 
lines,  each  man  with  a  bunch  of  fruit  on  his  shoulder 
carrying  it  from  the  vessel  to  the  refrigerator  cars. 
Many  bananas  get  broken  off,  and  others  that  are  over- 
ripe are  pulled  off  the  bunches  purposely.  Every 
worker  treasures  up  a  few  of  the  best  to  carry  home, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  pickings  are  thrown  aside. 
Hovering  around  the  edge  of  the  workers  is  a  throng 
of  men  and  boys  watching  for  a  chance  to  secure  a 
share  of  the  discarded  bananas,  and  all  of  these  human 
buzzards  get  their  hands  full  of  really  excellent  fruit. 
Some  of  the  waste  fruit  is  thrown  into  the  water,  and 
close  under  the  steamer's  hull  you  will  perhaps  see  a 
rowboat  with  a  couple  of  boys  in  it,  one  at  the  oars,  and 
his  companion  capturing  the  floating  plunder  with  a 
scoop-net. 


6     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Another  dainty  easily  to  be  had  by  everybody  is 
sugar.  Raw  sugar  in  bags  comes  from  Cuba  in  vast 
quantities,  and  as  the  sacks  lie  on  the  wharf  a  man 
with  a  gouge  digs  into  the  side  of  each  for  a  sample. 
Any  one  who  chooses  can  then  thrust  in  his  fingers  and 
sample  the  contents  on  his  own  account,  and  many  take 
advantage  of  the  opportunity. 

New  Orleans'  chief  thoroughfare  is  Canal  Street,  a 
broad,  modern  business  street  that  divides  the  old 
town  from  the  new  —  the  foreign  city  from  the  Ameri- 
can. The  latter  is  comparatively  uninteresting,  but 
on  the  other  side  of  the  dividing  line  the  manners  and 
customs  of  France  prevail.  French  is  the  principal 
language  and  the  streets  bear  French  names.  The 
people  keep  to  themselves,  and  some  of  them  are  said 
never  to  have  crossed  Canal  Street.  Indeed,  this  dis- 
trict is  probably  more  foreign  in  aspect  and  life  than 
any  other  that  could  be  encountered  in  the  United 
States.  Such  narrow  streets,  such  queer,  balconied 
houses,  such  strange  little  shops,  grimy  and  dark,  and 
so  many  people  of  alien  features  who  do  not  understand 
English,  or  who  speak  it  with  an  unfamiliar  accent ! 

The  population  is  dense,  and  you  see  frequent  doors 
where  passages  lead  to  dwellings  behind  those  fronting 
on  the  streets.  Every  house  has  its  courtyard,  and  this 
is  usually  paved,  and  has  flowers,  vines,  shrubs,  and  pos- 
sibly tall  trees  growing  in  it.  One  article  never  absent 
is  a  cistern,  a  great,  high,  hooped  affair  that  will  hold 


ONE   OF  THE   OLD   NARROW   STREETS 


'     OF  THE 

DIVERSITY 

°F        vV 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  7 

several  hogsheads.  Into  it  flows  the  rain-water  from 
the  roofs.  This  water  is  used  for  all  sorts  of  household 
purposes,  —  even  drinking;  but  it  tastes  of  roofs  and 
receptacle,  and  most  people  prefer  Mississippi  water 
when  they  can  get  it.  The  better  class  of  families  have 
river  water  piped  into  their  houses  from  the  city  water- 
works and  filter  it  for  drinking.  Others  get  water  in 
barrels  or  bottles  from  springs  a  few  score  miles  out  in 
the  country. 

The  courtyard  is  the  children's  playground.  There 
their  elders  loiter,  and  there  the  washerwoman  does  her 
scrubbing  and  hangs  out  the  clothes.  The  buildings 
around  are  balconied,  and  the  whole  space  is  a  con- 
venient gathering-place  for  rubbish,  and  never  lacks 
picturesqueness.  Often  fig  trees  flourish  and  ripen  their 
fruit  in  it,  and  sometimes  it  contains  lofty  magnolias  — 
queenly  trees  that  all  summer  open  their  large,  white, 
fragrant  blossoms  amid  the  glossy  foliage. 

Some  of  the  city  buildings  date  back  over  a  century 
to  Spanish  times,  and  their  quaint  and  massive  architec- 
ture and  weatherstained,  battered  walls  have  a  charm 
all  their  own.  One  of  the  most  imposing  mansions 
belonging  to  a  slightly  later  period  is  a  large,  square 
structure,  erected  by  an  admirer  of  Napoleon  at  the 
time  of  that  noted  leader's  adversity.  The  emperor 
was  urged  to  come  to  New  Orleans  and  accept  the  man- 
sion for  his  residence,  but  he  did  not  see  fit  to  take 
advantage  of  the  generous  offer. 


8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Another  large  building  is  known  as  "the  haunted 
house,"  and  every  local  inhabitant  can  tell  strange 
legends  concerning  it.  In  the  days  long  before  the 
war,  it  was  the  home  of  an  ogress-like  French  madame. 
"She  had  much  money,"  said  a  woman  who  told  me 
its  story;  "and  she  would  buy  slaves  just  to  torture 
them.  She  would  hang  them  up  in  the  garret  by  their 
thumbs  and  whip  them.  The  slave  babies  she  would 
throw  into  the  cistern,  and  after  she  was  gone  they 
found  that  cistern  full  of  the  babies  she'd  drowned. 
Many  a  mean  thing  was  done  in  slavery  times,  but  that 
was  the  worstest  I've  ever  heard;  and  yet  slavery  was 
well  enough  in  most  families.  Those  niggers  we  had 
them  times  reely  had  to  have  a  boss  over  them.  They 
were  not'ing  but  animals  —  and  so  wild  they  had  to  be 
tamed.  They  were  ugly-lookin',  too  —  like  apes,  with 
big  thick  lips  and  flat  noses,  and  hair  that  kinky  you 
couldn't  get  a  comb  in  it.  We  don't  have  such  niggers 
any  more;  but  I  was  tellin'  you  about  that  French 
woman.  There  were  gardens  around  the  house  then, 
and  the  street  was  not  built  up  solid  as  it  is  now;  and, 
besides,  the  stone  walls  of  the  house  were  very  thick. 
So  nobody  heard  the  cryin'  and  hollerin'  of  the  slaves. 
But  in  the  end  she  was  found  out,  though  she  was  slick 
enough  to  see  there  was  goin'  to  be  trouble,  and  she  ran 
away  to  France. 

"After  that  the  house  was  empty  and  people  began 
to  see  lights  in  the  windows  at  night,  and  when  they 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  9 

listened  at  the  doors  they  would  hear  the  cries  of  the 
dead  slaves.  For  a  long  time  it  stayed  closed  up  and 
then  a  high  school  was  started  in  it;  but  the  children 
saw  ghost  people  going  through  the  rooms  and  heard 
sounds  that  scared  them,  and  they  would  jump  up  and 
run  out  screaming  and  yelling.  They  just  couldn't 
stay  there,  and  the  school  had  to  stop.  The  building 
was  no  use  to  nobody  and  couldn't  be  sold  or  rented 
till  many  years  passed,  and  then  a  Dago  who  didn't 
believe  in  haunts  bought  it  for  very  much  less  than  it 
was  worth.  He's  got  people  livin'  in  it,  and  has  a 
saloon  on  the  ground  floor,  and  he  charges  a  nickel 
admission  to  see  the  building  inside.  Some  say  they 
still  hear  queer  things  there;  but  others  do  not  hear 
not'ing  strange  at  all." 

It  is  quite  evident  to  the  wanderer  in  the  Creole 
quarter  that  the  days  of  glory  for  this  part  of  the  city 
are  of  the  past.  Business  and  fashion  have  moved  on 
and  left  the  district  stranded  on  the  shores  of  time, 
though  its  decay  and  tendency  to  dilapidation  doubtless 
make  it  more  moving  to  the  imagination  than  it  was  in 
its  heyday  of  prosperity. 

"Oh,  things  was  very  different  here  before  the  war," 
explained  the  woman  who  told  me  about  the  haunted 
house.  "The  old  French  part  that  you  now  see  so 
shabby  was  very  fine  then.  Everybody  was  rich. 
You  could  pick  up  the  money  by  the  barrelful.  The 
white  people  didn't  need  to  do  any  work.  They  all 


io     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

had  servants.  Some  of  'em  wouldn't  even  put  on  their 
own  shoes  when  they  got  up  in  the  morning,  but  had  a 
slave  do  it.  Then  the  war  came  and  knocked  us  all 
down.  Everybody  lost  —  lost  money,  lost  property, 
lost  slaves.  The  change  was  hardest  of  all  on  the 
Creoles.  They  had  too  much  pride  to  work  —  yes, 
they  would  starve  rather  than  work,  and  so  this  old 
part  of  the  city  has  been  poor  ever  since." 

A  peculiar  characteristic  of  the  city  is  that  family 
food  supplies  are  largely  obtained  from  markets  where 
many  tradesmen  congregate  in  a  single  great  shed-like 
building.  The  smaller  markets  are  only  open  in  the 
morning  and  later  are  deserted  to  myriads  of  flies  and 
doubtful  odors.  The  early  hours  of  the  day  are  the 
marketing  hours,  and  much  of  the  buying  is  done  before 
breakfast;  but  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  great  French 
market,  near  the  cathedral  and  the  wharves,  there  is  a 
coming  and  going  of  basket-laden,  sunbonneted  women 
all  day.  A  series  of  widespreading  roofs  mounted  on 
iron  or  masonry  pillars  here  shelter  a  dim  and  cavernous 
interior,  where  you  find  a  wonderful  array  of  fruit, 
vegetables,  turtles,  tropical  fish  —  plunder  of  every 
variety  both  of  land  and  sea  and  from  far  and  near. 

The  New  Orleans  streets  are  in  a  few  instances 
paved  with  asphalt,  but  most  are  laid  with  big  square 
slabs  of  granite,  which  time  and  travel  have  canted  at 
all  sorts  of  angles  and  worn  and  battered  into  all  sorts 
of  roughnesses.  Over  these  stones  the  traffic  jolts  and 


LITTLE   ITALIANS 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  1 1 

rattles,  and  when  a  loaded  cart  approaches  with  any 
speed  there  is  such  a  crash  of  impending  doom  as  makes 
the  unaccustomed  stranger  jump  with  alarm. 

Owing  to  the  low,  marshy  situation  of  the  town, 
an  underground  drainage  system  presents  exceptional 
difficulties,  and  in  the  old  city  the  street  gutters  serve 
as  sewers  and  likewise  as  a  dumping-place  for  garbage. 
They  are  encumbered  by  refuse  through  which  flows  a 
filthy,  sluggish  rivulet,  and  I  have  never  encountered 
dirtier  and  more  ill-smelling  thoroughfares.  A  recent 
report  of  the  superintendent  of  streets  lists  some  of  the 
gutter  trash  as  "plank,  bags,  wads  of  paper,  straw, 
wire,  decayed  vegetables,  kettles,  cans,  boxes,  banana 
stems,  cast-off  furniture,  dead  puppies  and  rats." 

The  gutters  of  the  city  slope  away  from  the  river  to 
canals,  from  which  the  water  is  pumped  into  channels 
connecting  with  Lake  Pontchartrain,  five  or  six  miles 
distant.  The  lake  is  a  broad  inreach  from  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  and  is  several  feet  lower  than  the  river. 

The  same  cause  that  results  in  surface  drainage 
accounts  for  the  habit  of  making  burials  in  tombs  above 
ground  instead  of  in  the  watery  soil.  The  cemeteries 
are  heavily  walled  about  and  thickset  with  the  brick  or 
marble  dwellings  of  the  dead.  These  tombs  usually 
consist  of  two  vaults  well  cemented  to  prevent  exhala- 
tions from  interred  bodies;  but  sometimes  the  vaults 
are  built  in  a  solid  mass  in  tiers  and  are  then  called 
ovens.  Rigorous  laws  are  enforced  to  prevent  vaults 


12     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

being  opened  until  a  year  or  two  has  passed  after  a 
burial.  Then,  if  a  vault  is  needed  for  another  body,  it 
is  unsealed,  the  coffin  within  is  broken  up  and  burned, 
and  the  bones  are  deposited  in  a  space  left  for  the  pur- 
pose at  the  base  of  the  tomb.  Thus  many  burials  can 
be  made  in  the  same  vault. 

One  cemetery  that  attracts  a  particularly  numerous 
concourse  of  visitors  has  a  tall  stone  chapel  in  it  dedicated 
to  St.  Roch.  Here  miracles  are  wrought  which  have 
made  the  place  famous.  According  to  a  little  pink- 
covered  pamphlet  sold  at  the  cemetery,  St.  Roch  is  one 
of  the  greatest  saints  of  France.  He  was  born  in  1294, 
marked  with  a  small  red  cross  in  the  region  of  his  heart. 
This  singular  mark  was  considered  by  his  parents  to 
foretell  his  future  holiness,  and  he  early  "astonished 
every  one  by  the  pious  and  charitable  instincts  of  his 
gifted  soul." 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  his  parents  died,  and  he  became 
the  heir  of  "their  vast  wealth."  He  was  too  young  to 
have  entire  control  of  this  property,  but  he  promptly 
gave  away  as  much  of  it  as  was  at  his  disposal.  Then 
he  put  on  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim  and  started  for  Rome. 
On  the  way  he  came  to  a  city  where  the  plague  was 
raging.  That  "inflamed  his  charitable  zeal,"  and  he 
began  nursing  the  sick.  "God  rewarded  his  noble 
sacrifice,"  and  in  a  short  time  the  plague  disappeared. 

Then  he  plodded  to  another  city  similarly  afflicted, 
and  "delivered  it  from  the  ravages  of  the  plague." 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  13 

Everywhere  he  went  the  result  was  the  same.  Con- 
tagion fled  before  him,  and  it  began  to  be  whispered 
about  that  he  was  an  angel  in  disguise.  Many  he 
restored  to  health  by  simply  making  the  sign  of  the  cross 
over  them.  For  years  he  continued  his  labors  among 
the  Italian  cities,  but  at  last  he  himself  fell  a  victim  to 
the  epidemic  and  crept  away  to  a  cave  in  the  forest. 
After  closing  the  entrance  with  brush  he  knelt  to  pray, 
when  a  fountain  of  sparkling  water  burst  forth  right 
before  him.  He  quenched  his  thirst  and  washed  and 
was  much  refreshed.  Such  was  the  power  of  the  water 
that  he  presently  entirely  recovered.  Then  he  returned  to 
his  early  home  in  France.  But  he  was  not  recognized, 
and  "his  sole  ambition  being  to  endure  humiliations 
for  the  love  of  Christ,"  he  would  not  tell  who  he  was. 
That  put  him  under  suspicion,  and  he  was  arrested 
as  a  vagabond  of  doubtful  character  and  thrust  into 
prison.  For  five  years  he  continued  in  the  prison 
"communing  with  God  and  practising  the  severest 
austerities,  his  only  food  bread  and  water,  and  even  that 
used  abstemiously."  Death  came  to  his  relief  at  the 
age  of  thirty-four,  and  when  the  jailer  found  him  life- 
less on  his  dungeon  floor  the  apartment  was  filled  with 
a  mysterious  light,  and  near  the  body  lay  a  marble 
tablet  with  the  following  inscription  on  it  in  letters  of 
gold:  "Thou  who,  being  attacked  by  the  plague,  will 
have  recourse  to  the  powerful  protection  of  Blessed 
Roch,  beloved  by  God,  shall  find  immediate  relief." 


14     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  mark  of  a  cross  was  found  on  the  dead  man's 
breast,  and  then  it  was  known  that  he  was  St.  Roch. 
The  next  year  his  native  city  built  a  chapel  in  his  honor, 
and  since,  in  other  sections  of  France  and  in  other 
countries  of  Europe,  temples,  chapels,  altars,  and 
statues  of  St.  Roch  have  multiplied.  Nearly  all  these 
originated  in  a  sense  of  gratitude  for  protection  he  had 
granted  in  periods  of  public  distress  to  the  communities 
which  have  erected  them. 

The  New  Orleans  chapel  was  dedicated  to  St.  Roch 
at  the  time  of  the  city's  yellow  fever  epidemic  in  1878, 
and  the  municipality  continued  remarkably  free  from 
devastation  by  contagious  diseases  until  the  city  was 
again  invaded  by  yellow  fever  in  1905.  The  little 
Gothic  chapel  is  now  popularly  known  as  a  wishing 
shrine.  Thither  people  come  to  pray  for  whatever  they 
happen  to  desire,  confident  that  they  have  a  much  bet- 
ter chance  of  having  their  wishes  granted  than  if  they 
offered  their  petitions  elsewhere.  A  considerable  pro- 
portion of  its  patrons  are  young  women  who  beg  the 
good  saint  to  send  them  husbands. 

In  the  dim,  cool  interior,  when  I  was  there,  several 
yellow  candles  were  burning  before  the  altar  —  votive 
offerings  of  visitors.  The  walls  were  hung  with  small 
tablets  bearing  the  word  Merct,  and  with  crutches  left 
by  the  lame  and  halt  who  have  been  healed  at  this 
miraculous  spot,  and  with  casts  of  hands,  feet,  legs,  etc., 
presented  by  persons  cured  in  this  member  or  that. 


ON  THE  WAY  TO   HER   FIRST   COMMUNION 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  15 

Yet  not  all  requests  are  granted,  and  many  who  come 
hopeful  go  away  with  sad  disappointments  and  heart- 
aches. Thus,  one  person  told  me  about  a  cripple  boy 
whose  spine  had  been  hurt  when  he  was  a  baby.  "He 
was  all  shakified,"  the  narrator  continued,  "and  he 
couldn't  walk  well,  and  he  speak  so  bad  you  couldn't 
hardly  tell  what  he  said.  They  took  him  to  St.  Roch 
Cemetery,  and  soon  as  he  was  inside  the  gate  he  didn't 
walk  lame  any  more,  but  began  to  run  to  the  chapel; 
and  they  were  scared  to  see  him  do  like  that.  I  suppose 
the  angel  was  acting  on  him;  but  it  give  his  folks  such 
a  funny  feeling  that  they  took  him  away  and  wouldn't 
go  again.  Perhaps,  if  they  had  kept  on  going  he  might 
be  well  now  instead  of  a  poor  little  cripple.  But  you 
can't  tell.  I  know  lots  who  have  visited  St.  Roch's 
Chapel  and  had  more  trouble  afterward  than  they  did 
before." 

Of  points  of  interest  in  the  city  environs  I  was  most 
attracted  by  the  battle-field  a  half  dozen  miles  down  the 
river,  where  Andrew  Jackson  won  his  famous  fight  with 
the  British.  The  latter  part  of  the  way  I  walked 
along  the  crest  of  the  levee.  On  one  side  was  the 
muddy  torrent  of  the  Mississippi  almost  washing  the 
top  of  the  embankment.  On  the  other  side,  ten  or 
fifteen  feet  below  the  river  level,  were  mansions  and 
cabins  amid  fields  luscious  with  tall  grasses  and 
odorous  with  clover  blossoms.  The  trees  were  full- 
foliaged,  all  the  early  vegetables  were  ready  for  market, 


1 6     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

innumerable  birds  were  singing,  and  the  roads  were 
thick-covered  with  a  powdery  dust. 

I  found  the  battle-field  amid  broad,  level  pasture- 
lands,  and  essentially  unchanged  since  1815.  Here 
Jackson,  with  about  six  thousand  men,  threw  up  en- 
trenchments between  the  river  and  a  swamp,  and 
awaited  the  assault  of  Pakenham's  veterans,  who  out- 
numbered the  defendants  two  to  one.  The  battle 
lasted  less  than  thirty  minutes;  yet  in  that  time  the 
attacking  force  lost  twenty-six  hundred  men,  while  the 
Americans  had  only  eight  killed  and  thirteen  wounded. 
Never  in  all  history  was  an  English  army  so  badly 
defeated. 

Portions  of  the  old  earthwork  behind  which  the 
Americans  fought  still  remain,  and  in  the  wide  hollow 
of  the  ditch,  from  which  the  earth  was  excavated,  are 
pools  and  stretches  of  stagnant  water,  the  home  of 
mud-turtles  and  frogs,  the  breeding-place  of  mosquitoes, 
and  the  hunting-ground  of  darning-needles.  I  com- 
bated the  mosquitoes  as  long  as  I  lingered,  but  they 
were  persistent  in  spite  of  serious  losses,  and  I  presently 
retreated  to  the  city. 

I  arrived  in  the  early  afternoon.  It  was  a  typical 
day  —  the  air  clear,  the  sunshine  burning.  I  was 
never  much  inclined  to  stir  about  in  the  noontide  hours, 
and,  like  every  one  else,  if  I  chanced  to  be  on  the  streets 
at  that  time  I  kept  to  the  shady  side.  Shade  was  at  a 
premium,  and  as  much  of  it  was  secured  as  possible  by 


The  City  behind  the  Levee  17 

balconies  on  the  house  fronts  and  roofed  sidewalks 
before  the  stores;  and  when  the  sunlight  slanted  be- 
neath these  roofs,  curtains  were  drawn  down  from 
under  the  eaves  to  shut  out  the  glare  and  the  heat. 

Yet  while  it  was  so  sweltering  in  New  Orleans,  the 
papers  told  of  blizzards,  frosts,  and  snow  in  the  North. 
What  a  land  of  contrasts ! 

NOTE.  —  New  Orleans  possesses  many  attractions  for  the  tourist,  and 
one  can  stay  an  indefinite  length  of  time  without  exhausting  its  interest. 
I  have  spoken  only  of  salient  features  that  I  myself  enjoyed  most,  but 
there  is  much  else  that  has  a  strong  appeal  to  the  stranger.  Get  a  guide- 
book at  a  news  stand,  and  you  will  find  in  it  all  the  detailed  information 
necessary  to  enable  you  to  decide  what  you  wish  to  see.  As  a  rule,  the 
points  of  interest  are  quite  accessible,  most  of  them  by  trolley,  and  the 
expense  of  sightseeing  need  be  but  small.  It  is  advisable,  however, 
if  one  would  be  comfortable,  to  go  only  to  the  best  hotels  and  restau- 
rants. Among  the  various  river  trips  that  can  be  made,  perhaps  the 
most  attractive  is  an  excursion  down  to  where  the  river  joins  the  gulf. 


II 

MOSQUITOES    AND   ALLIGATORS 

IN  the  delta  country  of  the  lower  Mississippi, 
swamplands  are  everywhere  predominant,  and 
the  watersoaked  marshes  alternate  endlessly 
with  ponds,  lakes,  and  sluggish  streams.  It  is  a  region 
not  easily  brought  under  subjection  by  man,  and  though 
the  sawmills  and  the  fires  sweep  ofF  the  forests,  the 
country  they  leave  behind  is  almost  as  lonely  and  lack- 
ing in  human  inhabitants  as  before.  There  the  crea- 
tures of  the  wilderness  make  their  homes,  and  one  would 
have  to  go  far  to  find  any  district  that  presents  so  many 
advantages  for  their  safety.  Yet  they  are  not  left  in 
peace,  for  no  difficulties  can  wholly  daunt  the  hunters 
and  the  native  trappers. 

To  get  a  first-hand  view  of  conditions  in  the  swamp 
country,!  made  several  visits  to  a  little  place  a  few  miles 
out  of  New  Orleans.  My  acquaintance  with  it  began 
on  a  Sunday.  There  is  always  an  exodus  from  the  city 
on  pleasant  Sabbaths,  and  the  train  on  which  I  went  was 
crowded.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  starting  on  a  pic- 
nic— old  and  young,  singly,  in  friendly  groups,  and  in 
family  parties  —  and  they  were  all  well  laden  with 

18 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  19 

baskets  and  boxes  of  food,  and  with  guns  or  nets  and 
fishpoles.  Many  got  off  at  each  station,  and  when  I, 
too,  left  the  train,  it  was  with  the  usual  crowd.  The 
hunters  and  the  fishermen  lost  no  time  in  dispersing  to 
their  favorite  haunts  and  I  was  left  alone. 

Four  or  five  cabin  homes  and  meagre  garden  patches 
were  within  sight,  and  the  rest  was  ragged  forest  and 
reedy  marshes.  It  was  all  so  forlorn  that  I  wished 
myself  back  in  the  city,  but  there  was  no  train  till 
toward  night.  I  sat  down  in  the  rude  little  shed  that 
served  for  a  station  to  consider,  and  a  few  score  of 
mosquitoes  promptly  began  to  investigate  me  and  take 
some  sample  bites. 

Pretty  soon  two  young  white  fellows  and  a  colored 
boy  came  loafing  along  to  the  station  and  started  a 
game  of  "craps."  One  of  the  whites  played  against 
the  colored  boy,  and  the  third  fellow  looked  on.  The 
players  knelt  on  the  platform  opposite  each  other,  and 
the  game  continued  until  the  unlucky  colored  boy  had 
lost  all  his  money,  five  or  ten  cents  at  a  bet.  The  game 
was  played  with  two  dice,  which  each  player  would  in 
turn  shake  in  his  hand  and  then  give  a  little  throw 
along  the  planking.  Every  throw  was  accompanied  by 
a  half-articulate  exclamation  and  a  snap  of  the  fingers. 
The  thrower  lost  or  won  according  to  the  number  of 
dots  that  turned  up  on  the  dice. 

All  around  the  station  grew  weeds,  grass,  and  low 
shrubs,  except  for  an  acre  or  so  that  had  been  cleared 


2O     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  was  used  for  stacking  moss.  This  moss  draped 
the  forest  everywhere  with  its  gray,  pendent  masses, 
and  the  gathering  of  it  was  the  principal  industry  in 
this  particular  region.  When  prepared  for  market  it 
makes  a  very  good  substitute  for  horsehair  to  put  in 
mattresses  and  in  sofas  and  other  upholstering.  Some- 
times the  gatherers  go  in  a  boat  and  pull  the  moss  from 
the  trees  beside  the  waterways.  Others  pick  it  off 
fallen  trees  or  from  the  ground,  where  it  has  been  strewn 
by  the  winds.  However,  the  commonest  method  is  to 
resort  to  the  forest,  put  on  climbing  spurs,  and  go  up  in 
the  trees  to  gather  it.  Two  hundred  pounds  is  a  fair 
yield  for  a  tree,  but  some  of  the  big  oaks  have  half  a  ton 
or  more  on  them.  A  good  worker  will  easily  secure  five 
hundred  pounds  in  a  day,  for  which  he  will  be  paid  two 
dollars. 

The  main  substance  of  the  moss  is  like  a  coarse 
leathery  thread,  but  this  is  encumbered  with  a  fuzzy 
outer  covering  and  numerous  narrow  leaflets  which 
must  be  gotten  rid  of,  and  the  stems  are  full  of  sap. 
Those  who  gather  moss  in  a  small  way  soak  it  in  some 
swamp  hole  to  remove  the  leaves  and  cuticle  and  then 
hang  it  on  a  fence  to  dry.  But  in  the  clearing  adjoining 
the  station  it  was  heaped  in  great  square  flat  piles  fully 
fifteen  feet  across  and  three  feet  high.  The  piles  were 
kept  thoroughly  wet  down  for  about  a  month,  and  after- 
ward the  moss  was  dried  on  some  wire  fencing  erected 
for  the  purpose.  Lastly  it  was  baled  and  shipped. 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  21 

These  details  were  imparted  to  me  by  a  tall  lean- 
visaged  man  named  Dakin.  I  had  gone  from  the  station 
to  look  at  the  moss  piles  and  found  Dakin  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  heaps  smoking  his  pipe.  He 
was  the  chief  citizen  of  the  region  —  the  agent  of  a  vast 
estate  covering  twelve  square  miles  which  was  owned  by 
some  one  over  in  France.  Formerly  a  part  of  the  estate 
had  been  cultivated  as  a  sugar  plantation,  and  this  was 
populous  with  slaves  and  quite  thriving,  but  since  the 
war  no  crops  had  been  raised  and  the  old  fields  have 
degenerated  into  their  original  wild  jungle  and  morass. 
There  are  hardly  a  score  of  families  on  the  whole  tract 
now,  and  it  only  returns  about  enough  income  to  pay 
the  taxes. 

The  rental  for  each  of  the  families  who  live  on  it  is 
twenty-five  dollars  a  year.  That  sum  gives  a  cabin 
home,  a  garden  patch,  and  the  privilege  of  free  firewood, 
and  of  fishing,  trapping,  picking  moss,  etc.  If  a  house- 
hold comes  to  the  estate  and  builds  its  own  cabin  no 
rent  is  charged  for  the  first  year.  The  value  of  the 
house  is  thus  appraised  at  twenty-five  dollars.  Really, 
the  frail  little  shanties  that  serve  for  dwellings  are  worth 
no  more,  and  the  home  of  the  agent  of  the  estate  was 
not  much  better  than  the  others.  It  was  not  far  away, 
across  a  marsh-bordered  bayou,  which  was  spanned  by 
a  long  causeway  of  oak  slabs  and  discarded  railroad  ties. 

Dakin  invited  me  to  go  to  the  house  with  him.  To 
get  there  was  rather  a  delicate  matter,  for  parts  of  the 


22     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

causeway  were  missing  and  other  parts  dislocated,  as  the 
result  of  a  flood  two  years  before.  My  companion  had 
some  thoughts  of  repairing  it;  but  he  said  it  served  well 
enough  to  cross  on  foot,  and  he  seldom  needed  to  use  it 
for  animals  or  vehicles.  When  he  did  there  was  another 
bridge  three  miles  distant  that  served  instead. 

The  bayou  was  rather  impressive  from  the  middle 
of  the  bridge.  It  was  an  almost  stagnant  waterway, 
with  many  giant,  half-dead  trees  on  its  shores  reaching 
aloft  their  gaunt,  moss-draped  limbs.  Along  its  margin 
were  frequent  fallen  trunks,  and  a  green  scum  covered 
much  of  the  surface.  The  water  itself  was  dark  and 
full  of  tadpoles.  I  could  hear  a  bullfrog's  deep,  reso- 
nant voice  at  intervals  from  near  by.  I  could  see  mud- 
turtles  sunning  on  the  snags  that  rose  above  the  level 
of  the  water,  and  in  spots  there  were  water-lilies- 
angels  of  the  swamp  —  chaste  and  beautiful  amid  their 
sinister  and  noisome  surroundings. 

Dakin's  house  stood  on  slightly  rising  ground.  It 
was  an  unshaded,  irregular,  one-story  structure  made 
of  a  single  thickness  of  unplaned  boards.  Cracks  were 
numerous  and  none  of  the  three  rooms  had  ceilings. 
The  furniture  was  of  the  harum-scarum  order  and  not 
abundant  at  that.  The  hens  walked  familiarly  in  and 
out,  and  several  hounds  and  bird  dogs  were  loafing 
around. 

"You  have  cats,  too?"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dakin,  "sometimes  we  have  a 


THE   CAPTIVE 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  23 

dozen,  and  again  not  any.  Depends  on  what  kind  of 
a  humor  I  get  in.  They  ain't  much  good  for  contendin' 
with  such  rats  as  we  have  hyar.  Why,  some  of  our 
rats  are  as  big  as  raccoons  and'll  weigh  ten  pounds. 
We've  got  rats  right  in  this  house  that  have  been  hyar 
seven  years.  They  make  more  noise  nights  movin' 
aroun'  than  a  man.  I  bought  a  steel  trap  once  and 
tried  to  ketch  'em;  but  I  never  got  only  one.  After 
that  they  knew  too  much." 

We  had  sat  down  on  the  piazza,  or  "gallery,"  as  it  is 
called  in  the  lower  Mississippi  valley.  I  had  to  adjust 
myself  with  care,  partly  because  my  chair  was  rickety, 
partly  because  the  floor  boards  were  loose  and  much 
worn  and  broken.  Moreover,  one  of  the  little  girls  of 
the  family  approached  every  little  while  to  have  a 
silent  look  at  me,  and  she  would  step  on  the  warped-up 
ends  of  the  boards  that  ran  under  my  chair  and  joggle 
me  in  a  way  that  was  quite  discomposing. 

"I  been  a-threatening  to  build  over  this  hyar  floor," 
remarked  Mr.  Dakin;  "but  it  skeers  me  the  price  they 
done  been  puttin'  on  lumber.  If  lumber  keeps  gettin' 
mo'  expensive  the  nex'  ten  years  the  way  it  been  a-doin' 
the  las'  ten,  a  poor  man  like  me  won't  be  able  to  buy 
no  boards,  even  to  save  himself  from  bein'  hung.  We'll 
have  to  live  in  dirt  houses." 

Right  before  the  main  door  to  the  dwelling  was  a 
yawning  hole  in  the  gallery  floor  nearly  a  foot  across. 
It  was  perfectly  round  and  had  charred  edges.  I  noticed 


24     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

that  every  time  Mr.  Dakin  finished  speaking  he  would 
spit  into  the  floor  hole,  and  he  did  this  with  a  precision 
that  reflected  great  credit  on  his  markmanship.  It  was 
a  new  kind  of  a  spittoon  to  me,  and  I  asked  how  the 
hole  came  there. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Dakin,  ejecting  a  spirt 
of  saliva  through  the  subject  of  his  remarks.  "We 
fixed  up  a  mosquito  smudge  in  a  tin  pail  one  evenin'  and 
set  it  there  front  o'  the  door,  and  the  fire  burned  through 
the  bottom  o'  the  pail  and  through  the  floor,  too.  We 
discovered  what  was  goin'  on  jus'  in  time  to  save  the 
whole  house  from  burnin'  up." 

One  of  the  crap  players  I  had  seen  at  the  station  had 
joined  us  and  lounged  down  on  a  bench  that  was  on  the 
gallery.  "This'd  be  the  fines'  country  thar  is  if  'twa'n't 
for  the  mosquitoes,"  he  affirmed;  "but  thar'd  be  so 
many  people  flock  in  hyar  they'd  spoil  the  huntin'  an' 
fishin'." 

"Yes,  Jake,  you  done  spoke  the  truth  for  once," 
said  Mr.  Dakin.  "There'd  be  a  man  to  every  fish,  if 
mosquitoes  wa'n't  so  bad.  Why,"  he  added,  turning 
to  me,  "we  have  mosquitoes  hyar  all  the  year  round. 
Even  in  winter,  when  hit's  freezin'  outside,  you  c'n 
build  up  a  good  hot  fire  in  the  house  and  they'll  come 
out  from  somewhar  and  bite  you." 

"I've  known  it  to  snow,"  said  Jake,  "and  then  jus' 
let  the  sun  shine  half  a  day,  to  melt  it  off,  and  the 
mosquitoes'd  eat  you  up.  They're  worst  though  in 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  25 

August  when  the  weather  is  hottest.  You  can't  work 
without  gloves,  then,  and  you  got  to  put  your  coat  on 
and  tie  up  your  head  and  years/' 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  how  swift  they  can  fly  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Dakin.  "They  c'n  go  faster'n  a  railway 
train.  I've  sat  in  the  cyars  with  the  winder  open  and 
seen  a  mosquito  racin'  with  the  train  and  tryin'  his 
darndest  to  git  me;  and  he'd  gain  a  little  and  a  little 
mo',  and  then  in  he'd  come  right  on  to  my  hands  or 
face." 

"One  thing  I  don't  understand  is  why  they  bite  night 
and  day  both,"  observed  Jake.  "Hit  seem  like  they 
had  ought  to  rest  one  time  or  the  other." 

"A  rag  smoke'll  make  'em  hop,"  said  Mr.  Dakin. 
"You  fill  up  your  room  good  with  smoke  and  out  they 
go  lively." 

The  house  and  garden  were  hemmed  in  by  a  high 
paling  fence  of  such  rude  strength  that  the  premises 
looked  as  if  they  were  palisaded  against  marauding 
enemies.  Within  the  enclosure  were  various  small  fig, 
pomegranate,  and  other  fruit  trees,  and  on  the  fence 
grew  several  grapevines.  "  Them  vines  are  scupernons," 
Mr.  Dakin  said.  "They're  a  wild  grape,  but  you  culti- 
vate 'em  —  and  gee  whiz !  the  bunches  grow  big  as 
your  head.  The  blossoms  are  jus'  comin'  out  now, 
but  the  vines'll  be  plumb  full  of  grapes  later.  We'll  git 
all  we  want  to  eat,  and  the  chickens'll  pick  the  rest." 
-  "That  flood  we  had  two  years  ago  killed  a  good  many 


26     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

things  which  would  be  comin'  on  and  lookin'  pretty 
now,"  said  Jake.  "You  see  it  was  salt  water.  The 
gulf  is  a  hundred  miles  away;  but  a  heavy  southeast 
gale  raises  it  right  up  all  along  our  coast.  It's  been 
four  feet  over  this  place  a'ready  and  has  set  back  mighty 
nigh  sixty  miles  farther." 

"This  is  a  great  country  for  crops,"  said  Mr.  Dakin. 
"You  c'n  raise  anything  hyar.  You  shore  can." 

"You  can't  raise  watermelons,"  objected  Jake, 

"/  can,"  declared  Mr.  Dakin,  "and  so  could  others 
if  they'd  only  tend  to  'em,  but  the  folks  hyar  are  too 
lazy." 

"Well,  you  can't  raise  sweet  potatoes,"  said  Jake. 

"Yes,  I  can  too,"  said  Mr.  Dakin. 

"  But  they  don't  grow  big  as  your  finger." 

"Huh!  what  are  you  talkin'  about?"  Mr.  Dakin 
retorted.  "I  never  did  see  better  potatoes  than  mine 
anywhar.  I  do  my  planting  early.  The  trouble  with 
the  rest  of  you  is  that  you  don't  plant  till  September. 
Common  sense  would  tell  a  man  he  couldn't  get  potatoes 
in  two  weeks.  Yes,  sir !  you  c'n  raise  good  crops  hyar, 
and  your  cattle'll  pretty  near  take  care  of  themselves. 
I  don't  cut  any  hay.  I  buy  oats  some  for  my  horses  in 
the  winter,  but  the  cows  feed  on  the  wild  canes.  We 
have  a  cold  spell  now  and  then,  and  we  feel  it  because 
we  ain't  used  to  it;  but  the  cold  never  lasts  long.  We 
git  only  two  or  three  days  freeze  at  a  time,  and  ice  never 
forms  thick  enough  to  bear  your  weight.  The  leaves 


DRAGGING  AN  ALLIGATOR   FROM   ITS   HOLE 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  27 

fall  the  last  of  October  and  they  begin  to  come  again 
in  February." 

"  I  see  one  o'  your  cattle  yesterday  goin'  up  the  road 
just  a  bustin'  it,"  said  Jake. 

"They  c'n  run  like  deer  if  anything's  the  matter," 
was  Mr.  Dakin's  response.  "They're  wild  cattle  and 
they  used  to  be  all  over  the  swamps  hyar  and  didn't 
belong  to  nobody.  Finally  I  went  and  chased  aroun' 
and  caught  'em.  I  got  twenty-three.  If  they  hadn't 
'a'  been  killed  off  by  hunters  there'd  been  a  thousand. 
Them  cattle  are  jus'  suited  to  this  country.  They  c'n 
go  anywhar.  You  take  an  ordinary  cow  and  she  would 
soon  get  stuck  in  the  mud  hyar,  and  that  would  be  the 
end  of  her.  Such  a  cow  wouldn't  last  in  this  country 
as  long  as  a  snowball  in  hell.  When  a  cow  o'  mine 
is  crossin'  a  bayou  and  gets  tired,  she  stops  and  rests, 
or  if  she's  in  mud,  she'll  lay  right  down.  After  a  while 
she  goes  on,  and  she'll  rest  and  go  by  spells  till  she  gits 
to  solid  ground.  Now,  an  ordinary  cow,  when  she  finds 
she's  beginnin'  to  be  stuck,  makes  a  few  big  lunges  that 
sink  her  in  so  deep  she  never  can  get  out. 

"Thar  was  a  German  hyar  from  New  Orleans  a  while 
ago.  He  wanted  to  know  everything,  and  he  kep' 
a-askin'  questions  the  whole  time.  He  was  white  as  a 
lily  when  he  come  out  hyar,  but  in  four  days  he  was 
brown  as  I  am.  To  them  that's  acquainted  with  things 
in  this  country  he  acted  crazy;  but  he  wa'n't  —  he  was 
jus'  green  and  hadn't  seen  nothin'.  Why  the  fool  would 


28     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

ketch  a  rattlesnake  in  his  hands  if  you  didn't  look  out 
for  him.  I  had  my  cattle  fenced  in  hyar  one  day,  and 
I  happened  to  speak  of  their  bein'  wild.  The  Dutch- 
man got  excited  right  off.  He  took  his  dern  little  old 
thing — his  snap-shot  picture  machine,  you  know  —  and 
he'd  have  jumped  right  in  whar  the  cattle  were  if  I 
hadn't  grabbed  him  by  the  coat-tails.  Those  cattle 
wouldn't  'a'  let  God  git  in  amongst  'em. 

"It's  funny,  ain't  it,  the  things  people'll  say  and  do 
when  they're  in  country  that's  new  to  'em.  Not  long 
ago  I  was  at  the  station  when  the  train  come  in  and  I  see 
a  little  girl  and  her  father  at  a  car  window,  and  she 
pointed  to  some  of  the  trees  with  the  moss  on  'em  and  she 
said,  'Oh,  papa,  papa,  these  trees  have  got  whiskers  !  " 

Presently  Mrs.  Dakin  came  to  the  door  and  an- 
nounced dinner.  She  looked  pensive  and  worn  —  as 
if  the  drudgery  and  narrowness  of  her  life  had  quenched 
all  joy. 

"Come,  Colonel,"  said  my  host  to  me  as  he  rose, 
"have  something  to  eat  with  us." 

To  address  a  stranger  as  if  he  were  an  army  officer 
is  a  compliment.  In  Louisiana  I  was  often  accosted 
by  the  military  title  he  gave  me;  but  in  other  parts 
of  the  South  I  have  never  risen  higher  than  "captain." 

Our  dinner  was  served  in  the  kitchen  next  the  stove. 
The  room  was  dismally  barren,  and  it  was  hot  and  full 
of  flies.  "Make  yourself  at  home,"  said  Mr.  Dakin, 
cordially,  pushing  a  chair  into  place  for  me. 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  29 

I  looked  at  the  chair  rather  doubtfully,  for  the 
woven  cane  of  the  seat  was  entirely  gone.  However,  I 
contrived  to  sit  on  the  edge,  and  was  comforted  by  the 
fact  that  the  chair  on  my  right  was  in  the  same  con- 
dition. To  my  left  Jake  was  established  on  a  grocery 
box.  The  table  ware  was  scanty,  and  my  knife  was 
clumsily  short  because  half  the  blade  was  gone.  We  all 
helped  ourselves  to  the  pork  and  beans,  the  beets,  sweet 
potatoes,  corn  bread,  rice,  and  coffee.  The  food  was 
not  especially  appetizing,  but  it  was  eatable. 

We  were  soon  back  on  the  gallery,  and  I  asked  where 
the  local  inhabitants  went  to  church. 

"They  don't  go  anywhar,"  was  Mr.  Dakin's  reply, 
"except  a  few  of  the  niggers,  who  go  to  the  next  village 
four  or  five  miles  west.  Some  o'  these  niggers  got  so 
much  o'  this  hyar  church  religion  they  won't  play  craps." 

"A  nigger  is  a  funny  animal,"  remarked  Jake. 

"He  sure  is  !"  continued  Mr.  Dakin.  "Now  do  you 
actually  believe  a  nigger  is  human  ?  I  know  he  ain't. 
He  originates  from  a  monkey  or  a  baboon.  I  done  been 
in  the  museums  and  looked  at  skeletons,  and  I  can't 
see  any  difference  between  a  nigger's  skeleton  and  a 
gorilla's,  only  that  the  gorilla  has  got  tushes.  Another 
thing  —  did  you  ever  know  of  an  honest  nigger  ?  I 
don't  say  they're  all  dishonest.  About  one  in  seven 
hundred  is  all  right;  but  even  that  one  you  ain't  sure 
of.  He  may  be  honest  for  ninety-nine  years  and  then 
steal  if  he  gets  a  rael  good  chance." 


30     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"They  steal,"  said  Jake,  "but  that  ain't  a  circum- 
stance to  their  laziness.  If  you  want  a  nigger  to  work, 
always  keep  him  broke.  If  he's  got  six  dollars  and  a 
good  suit  of  clothes  and  a  pretty  good  hat,  he  thinks  it's 
an  insult  to  be  asked  to  work." 

About  this  time  a  visitor  arrived.  He  was  a  short, 
stout,  jovial  man  who  had  a  whiskey  bottle  with  him 
that  he  at  once  passed  around.  Mr.  Dakin  addressed 
him  as  "Babe,"  and  asked  him  if  he  had  eaten  dinner. 

"No,  and  I  don't  want  none,"  replied  Babe. 

"Well,  you  ain't  a-goin'  away  from  hyar  till  you  git 
somethin'  to  eat,"  affirmed  Mr.  Dakin.  "Myra,"  he 
called  to  his  wife,  "hyar's  Babe  'most  starved  to  death;" 
and  Mrs.  Dakin  began  dinner  preparations  again. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  there  came  a  second  visitor  — 
an  old  man  carrying  a  string  of  fish  he  had  caught.  He 
sat  down  on  a  plough  that  was  on  the  gallery  with 
various  other  farm  tools,  and  said,  "I  was  in  a  boat  up 
whar  the  bayou  jines  the  lake  and  I  see  somethin' 
movin'  in  the  water  that  long"  -holding  his  hands 
about  a  yard  apart. 

"What  was  it?"   inquired  Mr.  Dakin. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Didn't  it  have  any  eyes  or  years  or  nose  ?"  persisted 
Mr.  Dakin. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  did  or  not." 

"When  did  you  see  it?" 

"'Bout  a  hour  ago." 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  31 

"Then  you  ain't  clean  forgot  in  that  time  how  it 
looked.  What  species  of  animal  was  it  ?" 

"I  done  tol'  you  a  hundred  times  I  don't  know." 

"Might  'a'  been  a  rhinoceros,"  suggested  Babe. 

"Like  enough  hit  was  jus'  a  sucker  or  a  minnow," 
scoffed  Mr.  Dakin. 

"I  reckon  hit  was  a  young  whale,"  said  Jake. 

"I'll  take  my  pole  an'  whale  you  side  o'  the  head  if 
you  say  any  more,"  exclaimed  the  fisherman.  "I  see 
the  thing  comin'  with  its  big  mouth  wide  open,  and  I 
tells  myself,  *  It's  time  for  me  to  dig  out/  I  didn't  stop 
to  learn  what  kind  of  a  animal  it  was." 

Jake  had  taken  his  dice  out  of  his  pocket  and  was 
tossing  them  thoughtfully  along  the  bench  on  which 
he  was  sitting.  The  fisherman  noted  what  he  was 
about  and  offered  to  "shoot  craps"  with  him,  but 
dickered  for  some  advantage  that  Jake  would  not 
allow.  "Let's  have  a  look  at  your  dice,  Jake,"  said 
the  fisherman  at  length. 

"Them  have  been  lucky  dice  for  me,"  remarked 
their  owner  as  he  passed  them  over,  "though  the  first 
night  I  ever  had  'em  I  lost  good  and  deep;  but  in  the 
next  month  I  made  that  up  and  was  forty  dollars  to  the 
good." 

"Are  they  crooked?"  asked  the  fisherman. 

"No,  they're  as  honest  dice  as  ever  was  made." 

"  Jake,"  said  the  fisherman,  "if  you  don't  want  to 
roll  dice  with  me  I'll  make  ye  a  bet.  I'll  bet  one  dollar 


32     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

to  four  bits  that  eleven  and  eleven  are  twenty-two  and 
ten  and  ten  are  twenty  too.'* 

By  four  bits  he  meant  fifty  cents  —  a  bit  being  an 
old-time  coin  worth  about  twelve  and  a  half  cents. 
The  company  discussed  the  proposition  and  twisted 
and  turned  it  for  some  time.  They  affirmed  very 
decidedly  that  ten  and  ten  were  not  twenty-two,  but  no 
one  would  take  the  bet  for  fear  there  was  some  catch 
in  it. 

Then  the  fisherman  said  he  would  bet  at  similar 
odds  that  no  person  present  could  put  his  left  shoe  on 
first,  and  he  pulled  out  his  money  and  wanted  me  to 
hold  the  stakes.  However,  the  others  were  wary,  and 
after  fruitlessly  urging  them  to  show  their  courage,  he 
explained  his  ambiguous  proposals. 

Time  sped  along,  and  the  afternoon  shadows  length- 
ened, and  by  and  by  I  started  for  the  station.  On  the 
way  I  stopped  to  look  into  a  small  enclosure  on  the 
Dakin  premises  which  contained  a  tiny  pond.  Several 
glossy  wild  ducks  were  afloat  on  the  muddy  water. 
They  had  been  captured  when  wounded,  and  now  their 
wings  were  clipped.  Jake  pointed  out  two  of  them 
which  he  said  were  poodledoos,  but  he  had  no  names 
for  the  others. 

Adjoining  this  enclosure  was  a  pen  built  around  a 
mudhole,  and  there  I  could  see  numbers  of  young 
alligators  half  embedded  in  the  reek.  It  seemed  Jake 
was  an  alligator  hunter,  and  he  had  caught  that  year 


A  SHOT  AT  A  DEER 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  33 

fully  two  hundred  little  fellows  and  twenty-five  big 
ones.  Anything  over  two  feet  long  he  called  big. 
There  was  a  ready  sale  for  them  in  New  Orleans  to 
ship  to  zoos  and  to  whoever  had  a  fancy  for  owning  one 
of  these  grotesque  quadrupeds.  Jake  had  his  largest 
specimen  imprisoned  in  his  home  hut,  and  he  led  the 
way  to  the  two-room  shanty  where  he  had  his  bachelor 
quarters,  and  pulled  forth  a  scaly  monster  with  its 
jaws  muzzled  and  its  feet  tied  above  its  back.  I  was 
careful  not  to  get  very  near  the  creature.  It  was  help- 
less enough,  but  it  could  still  give  vicious  lunges  with 
its  big  tail. 

Jake  did  not  always  get  the  alligators  alive.  When 
he  killed  one  of  any  size  he  skinned  it  and  cured  the 
hide.  He  cooked  the  flesh  to  feed  the  dogs,  though  he 
often  fried  a  portion  of  the  tail  for  his  own  use.  It 
tasted  like  fish,  he  said,  and  was  very  good  eating. 

When  we  went  over  to  the  station  shed  we  found  the 
picnickers  returning,  and  some  had  lain  down  in  the 
shadow  of  the  building,  and  some  were  prowling  around 
in  the  weeds  looking  for  blackberries;  but  most  were 
in  the  station  playing  craps  or  looking  on.  Nickels, 
dimes,  and  quarters  were  constantly  changing  hands, 
and  there  was  rough  and  sulphurous  language,  the 
snap  of  fingers,  and  the  light  clatter  of  the  dice  as  they 
were  shaken  up  and  rolled  along  the  floor.  It  was  a 
promiscuous  crowd  of  old  and  young,  negroes  and 
whites,  all  intently  interested  and  eager.  Then  the 


34     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

train  was  announced  to  be  approaching,  and  there  was 
a  hasty  finish  of  games  and  a  pocketing  of  coin  and 
dice,  and  the  company  gathered  on  the  platform. 

Before  I  left  I  made  arrangements  with  Jake  to  go 
on  an  alligator  hunt,  and  early  one  morning  later  in  the 
week  I  again  was  at  the  little  station  amid  the  swamp- 
lands. Jake  and  several  negro  men  were  sitting  on 
the  heaps  of  curing  moss.  The  men  were  moss-pickers. 
They  were  ready  for  work  and  were  only  waiting  for 
the  spirit  to  move;  but  they  would  perhaps  loaf  there 
two  or  three  hours  to  learn  what  passers-by  and  those 
who  joined  their  group  had  to  say.  The  gathering 
served  all  the  purposes  of  a  daily  newspaper  as  far  as 
local  interests  were  concerned. 

Jake  had  the  toothache.  "Yo'  better  try  cold  iron," 
advised  one  of  the  negroes. 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "cold  iron  de  bes'  thing  for 
yo'.  Hit  certain  will  stop  de  toothache." 

But  there  was  no  dentist  at  hand,  and  Jake  presently 
rose  to  go  with  me.  He  said  the  trip  would  be  too 
boggy  for  my  clothing,  and  he  took  me  to  his  hut  and 
furnished  me  with  some  of  his  garments,  including  a 
great  heavy  pair  of  shoes.  For  his  own  footwear  he 
decided  to  put  on  rubber  boots.  He  found  a  pair  and 
discarded  them  because  they  lacked  holes  and  the  heat 
would  make  them  unendurable.  Another  pair,  how- 
ever, was  exhumed  which  were  satisfactorily  leaky,  and 
he  pulled  them  on.  Then  he  adjusted  a  bag  over  one 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  35 

shoulder,  stuck  a  hatchet  into  his  belt,  and  took  in  his 
hand  a  slender  iron  rod,  six  feet  long  and  hooked  at 
one  end. 

Off  we  went  along  "the  dirt  road,"  intending  to  go 
to  a  hunting-camp  Jake  had  seven  miles  off  in  the  wilds. 
The  road  was  a  narrow  trail  of  single  cart  width,  with 
streaks  of  grass  and  weeds  growing  between  the  wheel 
tracks,  and  it  was  hedged  in  on  either  side  by  the 
rankest  kind  of  a  jungle,  in  which  canes  were  predomi- 
nant. This  was  the  main  highway  of  the  region,  but 
it  ran  off  into  nowhere,  and  grew  more  and  more  grassy 
as  we  advanced.  Sometimes  we  walked  in  the  shade 
of  lofty,  moss-hung  trees,  —  live-oaks,  gums,  magnolias, 
and  cypress, — sometimes  through  blasted  tracts  dev- 
astated by  recent  fires.  Ordinarily  these  fires  only 
burn  till  nightfall,  and  then  are  extinguished  by  the 
heavy  dew.  The  woods  were  vocal  with  bird  songs, 
and  buzzards  were  soaring  high  in  the  ether. 

"Hit's  tolerable  hot,"  remarked  Jake;  and  so  it  was, 
for  the  sun  shone  clear  and  burning,  and  the  breeze 
that  fluttered  the  treetop  leafage  did  not  penetrate  into 
the  forest  depths  of  cane  and  briers  and  palmetto  scrub. 
The  heat  was  not  our  only  discomfort.  Hordes  of 
ravenous  mosquitoes  assailed  us  and  could  not  be  kept 
from  our  hands  and  faces  except  by  persistent  fighting. 
The  creatures  lit  on  our  clothing  and  clung  to  it  and 
prodded  with  their  poisoned  lances  in  savage  eagerness. 

After  a  few  miles  we  turned  off  from  the  dirt  road 


36     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

into  an  indistinct  path,  and  waded  through  mucky  low- 
lands to  a  dark  silent  bayou,  which  we  crossed  on  some 
half-sunken  logs  embedded  in  the  mud  of  its  shallows. 
On  we  went,  following  the  irregular  windings  of  the 
path,  long-legged  Jake  striding  on  ahead  and  I  coming 
after,  taking  care  to  step  along  briskly  enough  not  to  be 
left  behind  in  that  lonely  wilderness. 

Presently  Jake  stopped  and  cut  a  cane  a  dozen  or 
fifteen  feet  long  that  he  intended  to  use  as  a  prod  when 
we  came  to  the  marshes  where  the  alligators  lurked. 
A  little  farther  on  the  trees  and  woody  undergrowth 
disappeared,  and  we  had  before  us  the  marshlands, 
spreading  away  like  a  green  endless  sea  to  the  horizon, 
an  unbroken  level  of  saw-grass,  flags,  and  prairie  canes. 
Last  year's  growths  had  all  been  burned  off  during  the 
winter  except  for  a  few  scattering  stalks,  tall  and  with- 
ered and  rustling  in  the  wind.  The  rank  new  shoots 
were  waist  high  and  grew  in  tufts  from  the  charred 
stubs.  These  stubs  were  a  foot  tall  and  the  size  of 
one's  fist,  and  they  were  set  in  mud  that  varied  from  a 
watery  thinness  to  a  stiff  consistency.  What  sweaty, 
weary  work  it  was  pushing  through  that  monotony  of 
mud  and  coarse  grasses  !  It  made  the  breath  come 
hard  and  fast  and  the  muscles  ache. 

We  went  perhaps  a  mile,  and  then  Jake  said  I  might 
wait  where  I  was  until  he  had  done  a  little  investigating. 
I  was  glad  enough  to  stop,  and  I  stood  still  and  looked 
around.  Far  behind  me  was  the  forest  whence  we  had 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  37 

come,  and  all  about  was  the  vast  waste  of  marsh  which 
would  have  seemed  utterly  deserted  if  I  had  not  now 
and  then  heard  the  lonely  cries  of  waterfowl.  Jake  had 
disappeared  from  sight,  but  I  occasionally  saw  the  long 
cane  pole  he  carried  reaching  up  above  the  marsh 
growths.  When  that  too  was  gone  from  view,  I  was  a 
trifle  uneasy  in  the  forsaken  and  unfamiliar  void,  and 
I  questioned  whether,  left  to  my  own  resources,  I  could 
find  my  way  back  by  the  devious  and  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable path  through  the  barbaric  swamps. 

By  and  by  I  saw  smoke  curling  up  from  the  marsh 
grass.  Jake  had  set  it  on  fire  to  clear  a  path  and  make 
walking  and  seeing  easier.  I  hoped  the  fire  would  not 
burn  in  my  direction;  for  if  it  forged  ahead  with  any 
rapidity  I  could  not  have  gotten  away  from  it.  Any- 
thing more  than  a  snail's  pace  was  impossible  in  such 
a  sticky  mud  and  resisting  stubble.  But  I  need  not 
have  feared.  So  little  of  the  marsh  growths  was  dry 
enough  for  the  flames  to  lick  up  that  the  fire  made  slight 
headway. 

Finally  I  heard  a  distant  shout.  Jake  had  got  on  the 
trail  of  an  alligator,  and  I  plodded  in  his  direction. 
The  soil  became  more  watery  and  I  sank  half  leg  deep. 
Several  times  I  had  to  call  to  Jake  before  I  came  in 
sight  of  him,  to  make  sure  of  his  whereabouts.  He 
was  on  the  borders  of  a  narrow  channel  of  brown 
water  that  he  spoke  of  as  an  "alligator  slue,"  and  which 
the  alligator  used  as  a  highway  when  in  search  of  food. 


38     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  creature  had  a  hole  just  aside  from  the  slue,  and 
Jake  ran  his  pole  half  its  length  into  the  muddy  cavity 
to  let  the  inmate  know  that  something  was  going  on. 
Then  he  bent  over,  and  holding  his  nose  between  his 
thumb  and  finger  grunted  with  a  peculiar  guttural  in 
imitation  of  the  voice  of  an  old  alligator.  He  cautioned 
me  to  keep  perfectly  still.  Near  by  was  a  muskrat/s 
home  —  a  heap  of  dry  reeds.  A  water  moccasin  came 
from  somewhere  and  stopped,  startled  at  the  sight  of  us, 
and  then  slid  hastily  away.  We  roused  a  marsh  hen 
which  uttered  a  harsh  cry  and  fluttered  up  into  view 
and  with  frightened  wings  sped  to  safety. 

Jake  watched  the  water  intently,  repeating  the  grunt- 
ing at  intervals.  There  was  a  slight  movement  at  the 
surface,  and  he  made  a  sudden  grab  and  out  came  a 
little  alligator  a  foot  long.  He  grunted  again  and 
secured  another  little  fellow,  and  pretty  soon  a  third. 
Then  the  ground  quivered  faintly  and  the  long  pole 
trembled. 

"That's  the  big  one  —  the  mother,"  whispered  Jake, 
and  resumed  his  vocal  gymnastics. 

In  a  few  moments  there  was  just  the  least  ruffling  of 
the  water,  and  before  I  could  discern  the  cause  Jake 
had  plunged  in  both  hands  and  was  pulling  forth  a 
seven-foot  monster  firmly  gripped  by  the  jaws.  But  it  was 
bedaubed  with  clay  so  that  it  was  very  slippery,  and 
when  it  gave  a  sudden  twist  and  turn  Jake  lost  his  hold. 
The  beast  rolled  over  into  the  slue,  and  with  a  vigorous 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  39 

splash  of  its  muscular  tail  sent  the  water  flying  over  us 
and  in  a  twinkling  was  back  in  its  hole. 

Jake  was  mad,  and  he  made  some  remarks  more 
vigorous  than  elegant  and  began  thrusting  his  iron  rod 
into  the  soil.  He  could  prod  the  creature  out,  he  said, 
but  as  that  was  likely  to  injure  it  he  soon  decided  to  try 
the  persuasion  of  his  voice  once  more. 

This  time  he  imitated  the  cries  of  the  little  alligators. 
The  monster  responded  to  this  appeal  to  its  maternal 
instinct,  and  Jake  caught  it  in  the  same  way  as  before, 
drew  it  out  on  the  mud,  and  jumped  on  its  back.  Then 
he  took  a  cord  from  his  pocket,  tied  its  mouth  fast  shut 
and  fastened  its  legs  over  its  back  and  had  the  beast  at 
his  mercy.  It  was  the  personification  of  ugliness,  yet 
I  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for  it  and  sorrier  still  for 
the  little  alligators,  with  their  soft  bodies  and  pathetic 
eyes.  In  the  unmitigated  loneliness  of  the  bog,  the 
pleasures  of  life  were  not  very  apparent.  Nevertheless, 
I  suppose  these  creatures  are  in  their  nature  suited  to 
the  environment.  Jake  said  the  marshes  were  pretty 
thickly  populated  with  them,  and  that  there  were  at 
least  forty  big  ones  in  a  lagoon  not  far  from  where  we 
were. 

My  comrade  had  put  the  little  alligators  into  the  sack 
he  had  brought,  and  he  now  fastened  it  around  himself 
and  hoisted  the  big  beast  on  his  shoulder.  Then  he 
staggered  away  through  the  mire  and  shallow  pools  and 
slues  toward  the  comparatively  firm  ground  of  the 


40     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

swamp  —  and  what  a  relief  it  was  when  we  escaped 
from  the  dismal  barren  of  the  marshlands  ! 

Our  next  objective  was  Jake's  camp,  about  a  mile 
distant;  for  there  we  could  get  drinking  water,  and  we 
were  very  thirsty.  Jake  said  he  did  not  like  to  drink 
from  the  swamp  pools  and  bayous,  because  the  water 
was  apt  to  make  one  sick-  "though  I  have  drank  it 
a  many  a  time,"  he  added,  "when  I  couldn't  get  any 
other  handy." 

We  did  not  carry  the  alligators  to  the  camp.  Jake 
tied  a  cord  around  the  body  of  the  big  one  and  then 
doubled  the  creature  up  and  put  it  in  the  bag,  the 
mouth  of  which  he  tied  up  securely.  Afterward  he 
fastened  the  cord  that  was  attached  to  the  alligator's 
body  to  a  stump.  He  said  these  precautions  were 
necessary  because  it  would  perhaps  flop  around  and 
try  to  get  loose,  and  if  it  succeeded  he  would  have 
serious  trouble  finding  it  again.  "Hit  can  go  a  whole 
lot  faster'n  I  can  walk,"  he  declared. 

My  shoes  were  full  of  muddy  water  that  churned 
about  at  every  step,  and  my  feet  were  chafed  and 
blistered,  so  that  when  we  started  for  the  camp  I  could 
not  muster  up  much  speed.  A  vague  path  led  thither 
through  tangles  of  buck  brush  and  palmetto  scrub. 
Often  we  had  to  step  over  fallen  tree  trunks  or  make  a 
detour  around  the  larger  ones.  The  region  had  been 
heavily  wooded  a  few  years  before,  but  in  a  dry  spell 
a  fire  had  burned  for  twenty  days  among  the  great 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  41 

oaks,  cedars,  and  magnolias,  and  few  escaped.  Yet 
many  dead  giants  still  stood,  and  the  rotting  forms  of 
numerous  others  strewed  the  undergrowth.  By  and  by 
we  came  to  a  dark  stream  which  we  had  to  wade.  It 
was  knee  deep,  and  my  shoes  became  more  water-logged 
than  ever.  I  was  so  weary  I  could  hardly  drag  myself 
along,  and  the  swarming  mosquitoes  never  ceased  per- 
secuting us. 

The  camp  was  in  a  pretty  spot  on  the  borders  of  a 
bayou  that  was  alive  with  fish  constantly  making  little 
leaps  above  the  surface.  Here  stood  a  hut  built  of 
rough  boards  split  out  of  cypress,  and  here  Jake  and 
Mr.  Dakin  lived  most  of  the  time  in  the  winter,  hunting 
and  trapping.  "We  got  a  right  smart  of  game  hyar 
last  winter,"  said  Jake.  "We  had  eighty  steel  traps 
set,  and  we  caught  five  otter  that  fetched  us  from  six  to 
twelve  dollars  a  skin;  and  we  caught  coon  and  mink 
and  wildcats  and  all  sorts  of  varmints." 

A  trough  under  the  eaves  of  the  hut  ran  the  roof 
water  into  a  barrel,  and  to  this  receptacle  Jake  resorted 
with  a  rusty  tin  can  and  drank  with  evident  relish.  "Is 
it  good?"  I  inquired. 

"  You  bet  it  is  !"  was  his  response,  and  I  drank,  too, 
but  not  with  his  enthusiasm;  for  the  surface  was 
strewn  with  leaves  and  mosquitoes,  and  both  in  color 
and  taste  the  water  was  far  from  perfect. 

We  loafed  around  for  a  half  hour,  ate  a  lunch  we  had 
brought,  and  then  started  on  the  long  tramp  homeward. 


42     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

We  picked  up  the  alligators  on  the  way  and  kept 
on  steadily  for  four  or  five  miles  when  Jake  put  down 
his  load  remarking,  "I  reckon  I've  packed  that  alligator 
far  enough.  He'll  weigh  nigh  a  hundred  pounds,  and 
he's  gin  me  all  I  want  to  do  for  one  day.  I'll  come  up 
hyar  and  get  him  to-morrow." 

So  he  thrust  it  into  the  sack  and  tied  sack  and  all 
to  a  small  tree.  The  little  alligators  he  wrapped  up 
in  his  handkerchief  to  carry  along;  but  before  we 
started  he  pulled  off  his  boots  and  took  a  look  inside. 
"My  feet  are  on  fire,"  he  said.  "Hit's  jus'  a-smokin' 
in  thar,"  and  he  heaved  the  boots  over  into  the  brush 
where  the  alligator  was,  and  walked  the  rest  of  the 
way  in  his  stocking  feet. 

About  two  miles  from  the  hamlet  we  came  to  an 
empty  wagon  in  the  road  with  three  stalwart  negro  moss- 
pickers  standing  around  it.  "What  are  you  all  doing  ?" 
asked  Jake. 

"Our  horse  done  run  away  home,"  was  the  reply. 

They  had  unhitched  it  to  let  it  feed,  and  it  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  depart.  They  could 
have  worked  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  loading  the 
wagon,  but  they  were  apparently  glad  of  any  excuse  to 
quit,  and  they  each  lit  a  cigarette  and  went  on  with  us 
single  file  through  the  forest  jungle. 

We  arrived  at  Dakin's  stiff  and  lame,  and  sat  down 
on  his  gallery  to  revive.  Dakin  soon  came  in  from  a 
field  where  he  had  been  planting  corn,  and  began  spit- 


Mosquitoes  and  Alligators  43 

ting  through  the  hole  in  the  gallery  floor  and  asking 
what  luck  we  had  had.  After  we  finished  relating  our 
adventures,  Jake,  who  had  been  watching  the  approach 
of  a  boy  on  the  broken  causeway  that  spanned  the 
bayou,  said,  "Hyar  comes  Rob  toting  a  snappin* 
turtle.  That  boy'll  waste  a  whole  day  to  ketch  one  o' 
them,  when  he  had  ought  to  be  workin';  though  he 
ain't  strong  enough  for  his  work  to  amount  to  much. 
He  got  a  laig  about  as  big  as  a  good-sized  crane's." 

Rob  soon  came  in  at  the  gate.  He  eyed  Jake  and 
said,  "Look  like  you  half  dead." 

"Half  dead!"  exclaimed  Jake.  "I  could  jump  up 
and  lick  ten  such  as  you  this  minute." 

Rob  unloosed  the  big,  horny  turtle  on  the  gallery 
and  amused  himself  by  poking  it  with  a  stick,  at  which 
it  would  snap  its  jaws  with  savage  courage.  Presently 
a  colored  woman  came  to  the  house  on  some  errand  and 
stopped  to  observe  the  turtle  rear  and  bite.  "What'll 
you  give  for  him?"  asked  Mr.  Dakin.  "You  need 
some  fresh  meat  at  your  house,  don't  you?" 

She  thought  the  turtle  was  worth  fifty  cents,  and  Mr. 
Dakin  had  Rob  secure  it  so  she  could  carry  it.  This 
the  boy  did  by  letting  it  close  its  jaws  on  a  cord  which 
he  passed  around  under  the  rim  of  the  shell  and  knotted 
near  the  tail.  It  was  now  well  muzzled,  and  the  woman 
went  off  with  it. 

The  people  on  the  swamplands  plainly  lived  close  to 
nature,  but  it  was  a  closeness  that  was  half  barbaric. 


44     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Their  dwellings  were  primitively  rough,  their  farming 
and  gardening  of  the  crudest  sort,  their  discomforts 
many,  their  pleasures  few.  They  looked  to  the  forest 
and  waters  to  support  them  and  to  supply  much  of  their 
daily  food.  Hunting,  trapping,  and  fishing  were  their 
chief  interests,  and  they  were  always  on  the  watch  to 
waylay  the  wild  denizens  of  the  boggy  jungles.  To  me 
as  an  onlooker  all  this  was  quite  fascinating,  yet  sharing 
the  life  even  for  a  short  period  had  serious  drawbacks. 
The  mosquitoes  had  blotched  my  hands  and  face  with 
poisoned  swellings,  the  numerous  wood-ticks  and  red- 
bugs  I  had  encountered  had  left  their  marks,  and  it  was 
many  days  before  my  blistered  feet  healed.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  I  had  hitherto  never  half  realized  the 
comforts  of  civilization. 

NOTE.  — Any  very  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  moss-pickers  and 
alligator-hunters  entails  some  hardships.  Food,  shelter,  and  travelling 
are  all  poor,  and  you  never  know  just  what  unusual  discomforts  you 
may  encounter.  The  country  where  these  primitive  people  live  is, 
however,  quite  accessible  from  New  Orleans,  and  one  can  go  out  on 
the  train,  stay  a  few  hours,  and  then  return.  Even  then  the  enterprise 
is  more  picturesque  than  agreeable,  unless  you  have  a  fancy  for  rough- 
ing it. 


Ill 

THE    LAND    OF    RICE    AND    SUGAR 

IN    the    southern    Mississippi    valley,    on    the    low 
levels    behind    the   protecting   upheaval   of    the 
levees,  rice  and  sugar  are  the  staple  crops.     You 
can  travel  for  scores  of  miles  and  encounter  little  else 
than  the  broad  sugar  and  rice  fields,  and  a  succession 
of  populous  farm  villages. 

I  found  the  aspect  of  the  country  unusually  interesting 
and  attractive.  The  soil  looked  immensely  fertile  and 
well-tilled,  the  homes  were  suggestive  of  thrift  and 
prosperity,  and  the  wide,  clear  expanses  under  cultiva- 
tion intermitted  very  prettily  with  the  white  villages 
snuggling  among  the  tall  trees.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred 
that  white  buildings  were  universal,  but  they  were 
predominant,  and  while  paint  was  beyond  the  means  of 
the  humbler  folk,  they  could  secure  the  prevailing  tint 
cheaply  by  whitewashing.  In  fact,  whitewash  is  quite 
an  institution  in  the  rice  and  sugar  country.  It  is  used 
very  freely  on  barns  and  sheds,  negro  cabins,  hen-coops, 
and  fences.  The  man  who  is  particular  about  appear- 
ances and  wishes  to  keep  his  premises  in  ideal  shape, 
whitewashes  everything  in  sight  once  a  year. 

45 


46     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The,  fences  are  very  substantial,  and  form  such  stout 
bulwarks  about  the  houses,  dooryards,  and  fields  that 
they  make  the  villages  look  almost  feudal.  Occasionally 
a  fence  is  of  wire,  but  posts  and  rails,  or  pickets,  are 
more  usual;  and  unless  a  fence  is  "horse-high,  bull- 
strong,  and  pig-tight,"  it  does  not  meet  with  general 
approval. 

The  large  houses  sit  well  back  from  the  road,  and 
with  the  fine  trees  about  them  they  convey  a  charm- 
ing sense  of  placidity  and  hospitable  ease.  A  great  gate 
gives  entrance  to  the  grounds,  and  sometimes  a  stile 
climbs  over  the  lofty  fence  beside  the  gate.  The  stile 
is  especially  for  the  children,  who  would  have  difficulty 
in  handling  the  heavy  gate. 

The  village  of  Nazaire,  where  I  stopped  for  several 
days,  was  like  most  of  the  river  hamlets  —  an  odd 
mixture  of  fine  residences,  shed-like  country  stores,  and 
negro  cabins.  The  negroes  lived  mostly  on  the  side 
lanes  or  behind  the  big  houses,  where  their  hovels  were 
not  conspicuous.  Many  of  the  cabins  were  double- 
tenement  structures,  consisting  for  each  tenant  of  a 
room  for  general  use,  including  sleeping,  and  a  shed- 
room  for  a  kitchen.  Neither  apartment  was  large 
enough  to  swing  a  cat  in. 

One  cabin  that  particularly  interested  me  had  walls 
of  "mud."  Such  construction  was  formerly  common. 
The  wooden  framework  of  the  house  was  first  put  up 
and  slats  nailed  to  it.  Then  the  space  between  the 


The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  47 

studding  was  filled  in  with  a  mixture  of  clay  and 
Spanish  moss.  Where  the  walls  were  exposed  to  the 
weather  they  were  boarded  over;  but  under  the  gallery 
that  ran  across  the  front  and  in  the  rooms,  the  brown 
dried  mud  was  in  view.  The  people  who  lived  in  this 
cabin  said  it  was  warmer  in  winter  and  cooler  in  sum- 
mer than  a  wooden  house.  They  seemed  satisfied, 
though  the  dwelling  looked  ready  to  go  to  pieces.  Like 
many  other  negro  cabins,  the  window  openings  were 
merely  closed  with  board  shutters.  There  was  not  a 
pane  of  glass  in  the  building.  Of  course  the  rooms 
were  dark  as  a  pocket  when  the  shutters  and  doors  were 
closed,  and  I  was  curious  to  learn  what  the  inmates  did 
in  cold  weather. 

"We  has  a  fire  den,  sah,"  said  the  turbaned  old 
woman  whom  I  questioned;  "and  we  keeps  a  door  or 
a  window  open  on  de  side  what  de  wind  doan't  blow 
from.  Oh,  yas,  sah." 

This  house  was  built  since  the  war;  but  across  the 
road  was  an  ante-bellum  wooden  cabin  still  farther 
gone  in  decay.  Many  of  the  old-time  cabins  had  dirt 
floors  in  their  kitchens,  and  that  was  the  original  state 
of  the  floor  in  this  ancient  wooden  cabin;  but  latterly 
the  dirt  had  been  loosely  overlaid  with  boards. 

Rudeness  and  frailty  were  not  confined  to  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  negroes.  The  house  where  I  lodged,  for 
instance,  while  it  was  very  neat  and  pleasant,  was  of  the 
thinnest  and  cheapest  construction.  The  floors  teetered 


48     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  made  the  furniture  shake  with  every  footstep.  But 
there  was  evidence  of  an  aspiration  for  the  beautiful; 
else  why  was  the  interior  woodwork  painted  that  vivid 
green  ?  and  why  were  there  those  various  pictures  hung 
on  the  walls  ?  Art  was  most  lavished  on  the  best  room, 
where  were  a  chromo  painting  in  a  heavy  gilt  frame, 
and  a  framed  portrait  of  Jefferson  Davis.  Scarcely  less 
prominent  were  two  large  colored  prints,  one  advertis- 
ing a  Milwaukee  beer,  the  second  a  brand  of  whiskey. 

Nearly  all  the  family  were  away  every  evening  attend- 
ing a  series  of  meetings  at  a  church  seven  miles  distant. 
Practically  all  the  churches  of  the  whites  in  that  portion 
of  Louisiana  were  Catholic,  and  the  services  were  in 
French,  which  was  the  common  language  of  the  people. 
With  few  exceptions  they  could  speak  English,  too, 
though  accent  and  manner  were  slightly  foreign. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  from  my  lodging- 
place  was  a  great  sugar-cane  field.  I  often  lingered 
in  this  and  the  other  fields  of  the  region  watching  the 
workers.  The  cane  had  attained  a  heigh*  of  about  a 
foot,  and  grew  in  rows  of  straggling  scr.lwny  stalks, 
resembling  corn,  but  not  nearly  as  handsome.  At 
frequent  intervals  there  were  grass-grown  ditches  for 
drainage.  These  did  not,  however,  conduct  the  surplus 
water  to  the  river  as  one  would  be  apt  to  expect,  but 
carried  it  to  the  low  swamps  and  lakes  in  the  other 
direction.  Ditches  were  a  feature  of  the  entire  country. 
They  networked  the  cultivated  fields,  the  grasslands, 


The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  49 

town-lots,  and  home  premises,  and  there  was  a  deep 
drainage  ditch  on  each  side  of  the  highways. 

The  ditching  was  especially  careful  and  elaborate  in 
the  rice  fields,  most  of  which  were  now  flooded  and  get- 
ting green  with  the  growing  grain.  The  rice  ditches  had 
numerous  dams;  and  slight  ridges  were  thrown  up  here 
and  there  so  that  the  earth  was  everywhere  kept  a  little 
under  water.  This  water  came  from  the  Mississippi, 
and  during  flood-time  flowed  in  of  itself;  but  later,  when 
the  river  had  fallen,  it  would  be  pumped  in.  There  were 
big  pipes  arching  over  the  levee  and  pumping  engines 
at  frequent  intervals  along  the  waterside. 

The  sugar-cane  was  getting  its  first  hoeing,  and  every 
field  had  its  straggling  group  of  workers.  Much  of  the 
time  an  overseer  was  among  the  workers,  directing  and 
urging.  He  rode  on  horseback,  and  during  labor  hours 
was  rarely  out  of  the  saddle  from  morn  till  night.  His 
sceptre  of  authority  is  a  riding-whip  or  a  stout  stick. 
This  is  primarily  for  the  horse,  but  it  may  be  applied 
pretty  freely  to  the  negroes  on  occasion.  "I  don't 
much  believe  in  that,"  said  one  overseer  to  me.  "Of 
course,  the  niggers,  they  mo'  contrary  sometimes  than 
other  times ;  but  yo'  don't  often  need  to  hit  'em.  They 
the  best  plantation  help  in  the  world,  most  willing  and 
most  easily  managed.  Yo'  find  fault  with  a  white  man 
workin'  for  yo',  and  he  get  mad.  You  can  order  a 
nigger  just  as  yo'  please,  and  even  if  yo'  beat  him  he 
stays  by  his  work.  But  yo'  treat  a  white  man  like  that, 


50     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

no  matter  if  he  know  he  in  the  wrong,  he  bound  to 
quit." 

It  was  hard  and  sweaty  work  for  the  laborers  cutting 
the  weeds  and  stirring  the  ground  with  their  great 
clumsy  hoes ;  and  from  time  to  time  a  water  cart  made 
the  rounds.  The  cart  only  attempted  to  follow  the 
plantation  roads,  and  thence  some  lad  lugged  the  water 
in  a  pail  down  the  field  and  went  from  one  worker  to 
another.  The  help  included  men,  women,  and  boys. 
The  men  were  paid  seventy  to  seventy-five  cents  a  day, 
the  women  fifty  to  sixty  cents,  and  the  boys  thirty 
cents.  These  youngsters  were  put  two  on  a  row,  and 
then  were  expected  to  keep  up  with  the  rest. 

I  explored  all  the  neighborhood  and  visited  several 
of  the  nearer  villages.  In  clear  weather  it  was  too  hot 
for  comfort  walking  anywhere  except  on  the  levee. 
There  one  got  the  benefit  of  the  cold  air  from  the  water, 
and  of  any  breeze  that  happened  to  be  blowing;  and  it 
was  a  delight  to  watch  the  cloud-shadows  darkling 
across  the  broad  and  lonely  stream,  and  to  look  over  to 
the  opposite  bank,  dim  and  blue  in  the  distance,  with 
its  irregular  tree-masses  and  its  houses  hidden  by  the 
levee,  all  but  the  roofs.  The  muddy  current  hurrying 
on  its  seaward  journey  always  carried  with  it  an  endless 
procession  of  driftwood,  the  refuse  and  wreckage  of 
thousands  of  miles  of  streams  above.  Most  of  it  con- 
sisted of  bruised  and  shattered  forest  trees  washed  out 
of  the  banks,  roots  and  all.  A  good  deal  was  driven  in 


The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  5 1 

to  the  shore  by  the  wind,  and  the  river  margin  was  much 
bestrewn. 

It  is  customary  to  graze  cattle  and  horses  on  the  levee 
and  any  land  that  may  lie  outside;  but  when  the  water 
begins  to  get  dangerously  high  the  grazing  is  stopped, 
lest  the  turf  be  injured  and  the  waves  seek  out  the  weak- 
ness and  make  a  crevasse.  One  evening,  as  I  sat  by 
the  riverside  on  the  grassy  slope  of  the  levee  near  the 
village,  a  colored  woman  climbed  the  embankment 
from  the  landward  and  stopped  to  look  at  the  stream. 
"Am  it  a-raisin'?"  she  asked. 

I  said  I  thought  it  was ;  and  after  she  had  considered 
a  moment  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  clouds  and 
remarked,  "I  reckon  we  gwine  to  git  some  rain,  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  cotched  in  it.  I  done  got  nigh  three 
mile  to  walk  to  whar  I  live.  Yo'  ever  seen  these  roads 
hyar  when  it  been  rainin'  ?  Whoo-hoo !  If  it  rain 
fifteen  minutes  they  so  muddy  yo'  cain't  hardly  git  along, 
and  if  it  rain  a  whole  day  yo'  almost  up  to  yo'  knees  in 
mud.  Out  North,  whar  I  was  raised  in  Kentucky,  the 
country  was  mo'  sandy,  and  the  rain  might  po'  down 
hard  as  it  please,  and  in  half  an  hour  after  it  was  over 
de  groun'  would  be  dry." 

She  went  off  muttering  to  herself  as  she  hobbled 
along.  Not  far  from  where  I  sat  a  boat  was  moored, 
and  a  little  darkey  was  pushing  about  in  it  with  great 
hilarity.  I  was  quite  entertained  by  his  antics,  but 
pretty  soon  a  sprinkle  of  rain  sent  us  both  in  search  of 


52     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

shelter.  As  we  came  away  from  the  levee,  we  heard  an 
uproar  in  a  near  cabin.  There  was  an  angry  mother's 
voice  shouting:  "Yo'  come  when  I  call  yo' !  "  (Slap  ! 
slap!)  "Yo'  hear  what  I  say!"  (Slap!  slap!)  "I'll 
1'arn  yo'  to  min'  me  if  it  take  all  de  strenk  I  got!" 
(Slap!  slap!) 

Meanwhile  a  youngster  was  howling  and  begging  for 
mercy  and  exclaiming  at  frequent  intervals,  "Oh,  my 
Lord!" 

My  companion  ran  and  peeked  through  the  fence, 
and  then  jumped  up  and  down  and  clapped  his  hands 
and  seemed  greatly  rejoiced  and  edified. 

A  little  farther  on  another  disturbance  was  in  prog- 
ress. Some  colored  boys  who  had  been  playing 
marbles  had  gotten  into  a  dispute,  and  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  settling  their  differences  without  fighting; 
but  a  scarecrow  of  a  young  woman  with  a  good  stout 
slab  swooped  down  on  them,  and  they  all  scattered. 
Now  and  then  she  made  a  dash  at  this  one  or 
that  and  told  the  horrible  things  she  would  do  to 
them.  "I'll  larn  yo' !  I'll  knock  yo'  daid!"  she 
declared. 

She  was  particularly  sharp  toward  a  boy  who  was  her 
brother,  and  who  hovered  at  a  distance,  alternately 
weeping  and  reviling.  She  would  not  relent,  but 
shouted:  "Yo'  come  out  hyar  in  de  road  to  fight  about 
marbles !  What  yo'  want  wid  mo'  marbles  anyhow  ? 
Yo'  got  de  chimbley  at  home  full  on  *em ;  an'  hyar  yo' 


The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  53 

is  a-fightin'  about  'em.  I'll  take  'em  all  an'  frow  'em 
in  de  pond.  Yes,  I  will." 

Nazaire  had  three  schools.  Two  of  them  were  for 
colored  pupils,  but  one  of  these  was  a  "pay  school," 
kept  in  the  little  Methodist  church  by  the  pastor,  at  ten 
cents  for  each  child  per  week.  The  free  negro  school 
was  in  a  rickety  cabin,  with  a  big  chimney  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  one  room.  Here  sixty  scholars  gathered, 
and  they  filled  the  backless  benches  full  and  left  very 
little  open  floor  space.  The  desks  that  accompanied 
the  benches  were  long  movable  affairs,  with  a  slant  on 
either  side,  so  that  two  rows  of  children  could  sit  at  each 
desk.  Underneath  the  desk  top  was  a  narrow  shelf 
which  served  chiefly  as  a  convenient  repository  for  hats 
and  sunbonnets,  though  chance  nails  driven  into  the 
rough  whitewashed  walls  were  also  more  or  less  utilized 
for  the  same  purpose.  Desks,  benches,  and  teacher's 
table  were  of  cheap  boards  hammered  together  by 
some  local  carpenter,  and  were  battered  and  browned 
by  long  use,  and  much  carved  by  youthful  jack-knives. 
A  dog  lay  stretched  out  asleep  under  one  of  the  benches 
when  I  made  the  school  a  visit,  and  two  or  three  of  the 
smaller  children  were  creeping  about  the  floor.  In  the 
main,  the  pupils  were  quiet  and  orderly.  Perhaps  they 
were  somewhat  daunted  by  the  stout  strap  which  the 
middle-aged  woman,  who  was  their  teacher,  carried 
ready  for  action  over  her  shoulder. 

The  chimney  had  a  fireplace  on  two  sides,  but  the 


54     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

cabin  walls  were  so  thin  and  leaky  the  building  could 
hardly  have  been  warmed  effectively.  Beside  the 
chimney,  on  the  floor,  was  a  bucket  of  water  and  a  tin 
can  to  drink  from.  The  teacher  said  the  water  came 
from  a  near  well,  and  that  it  did  not  taste  good  and  was 
liable  to  make  a  person  sick.  But  I  noticed  the  children 
drank  often  and  copiously.  The  teacher  herself  and 
some  of  the  girls  brought  water  from  home  in  bottles. 
Nearly  all  the  children  were  barefoot.  In  most  in- 
stances they  had  their  dinners  with  them,  and  some 
walked  daily  from  a  distance  of  three  and  a  half  miles. 
Their  books  were  shabby  and  few,  and  not  many  of  the 
pupils  would  attain  more  than  the  bare  ability  to  read 
and  write  and  do  simple  sums  in  arithmetic.  They 
seldom  studied  geography,  for  their  parents  argue  - 
"What  de  use  for  dem  to  know  about  foreign  parts? 
Dey  ain'  gwine  travel." 

School  begins  each  year  in  March  and  continues 
without  a  break  for  seven  months.  The  teacher  said 
the  children  were  not  very  regular  attendants,  and  that 
in  the  five  months'  vacation  they  forgot  nearly  all  they 
learned.  At  home  they  hear  only  "Creole  French," 
and  that  makes  the  task  of  studying  their  English 
school  books  doubly  hard. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning  and  afternoon  sessions 
the  little  ones  were  allowed  to  go  out  and  play,  but  the 
rest  were  kept  steadily  to  their  tasks.  This  seemed  a 
pretty  severe  requirement — three  hours  at  a  stretch  in 


THE   STUDENTS 


The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  55 

that  crowded  room  and  on  those  backless  benches,  which 
were  so  high  that  none  save  the  oldest  pupils  could  touch 
their  feet  to  the  floor. 

The  schoolhouse  of  the  whites  was  the  same  in  size 
and  interior  arrangement  and  furnishings  as  that  of  the 
blacks;  but  it  was  on  the  main  road,  and  was  newer, 
and  in  good  repair.  The  fifteen  or  twenty  attend- 
ants did  not  compare  at  all  favorably  in  behavior 
with  the  colored  children.  They  wriggled  and  twisted 
and  had  all  sorts  of  circuses.  They  did  not  do  much 
studying,  and  sometimes  this  one  or  that  one  would 
relapse  into  dreaminess  and  gaze  out  of  the  glassless 
window-openings  to  the  hot  sunshine  and  green 
fields. 

While  I  was  at  Nazaire  the  state  election  occurred,  and 
the  schools  were  closed,  and  the  white's  schoolhouse 
was  used  for  a  polling-place.  A  good  many  of  the 
voters  made  an  all-day  picnic  of  the  occasion  and  hov- 
ered around  the  schoolhouse  pretty  constantly.  Only 
about  thirty  votes  were  cast  in  all,  and  the  assemblage 
was  never  large.  Behind  one  long  desk  sat  the  three 
commissioners  and  the  clerk;  but  their  duties  did  not 
necessitate  continuous  attention,  and  they  sometimes 
went,  one  or  two  at  a  time,  to  other  parts  of  the  room 
or  out  on  the  gallery.  Carriages  and  saddle-horses 
were  hitched  along  the  near  fences,  and  the  voters  made 
themselves  very  much  at  home.  They  even  sat  on  top 
of  the  school  desks,  and  some,  from  force  of  long-gone 


56     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

boyhood  habit,  got  out  their  jack-knives  and  whittled 
off  a  few  slivers. 

At  the  back  of  the  room  was  an  array  of  pails  and 
bottles  and  a  sugar  bowl.  Whenever  an  election 
official  got  thirsty  or  felt  the  need  of  being  braced  for 
his  duties,  he  retired  and  took  a  drink  of  whiskey  or 
claret.  Also,  each  person  as  soon  as  he  voted  was 
conducted  thither  for  a  reviving  glass ;  and  some  im- 
bibed from  time  to  time  afterward  until  they  could  not 
walk  straight  and  their  speech  became  thick  and  stam- 
mering. Every  man  had  a  pouch  of  fine-cut  tobacco  in 
his  pocket,  and  at  frequent  intervals  rolled  and  smoked 
a  cigarette.  If  tobacco  or  wine  or  whiskey  ran  low, 
some  little  negro  boy  was  called  from  the  road  and  sent 
off  in  haste  to  the  nearest  store  with  money  in  his  hand 
to  buy  more. 

The  conclave  joked  and  gossiped  and  told  stories 
and  talked  crops  endlessly.  Their  manner  was  char- 
acteristically French,  and  they  put  much  intensity  of 
voice  and  gesture  into  all  they  said.  One  of  them  gave 
a  dramatic  recitation,  and  marched  up  and  down  the 
floor  and  entered  with  as  much  spirit  into  the  perform- 
ance as  if  he  had  been  acting  on  the  stage.  Sometimes 
there  were  heated  disputes  over  questions  of  politics 
and  the  methods  of  voting.  Men  shouted  and  shook 
fists  and  stamped  in  and  out  of  the  door  and  grew  red 
in  the  face  and  told  certain  ones  exactly  what  they 
thought  of  them.  There  were  even  those  who  were 


The  Land  of  Rice  and  Sugar  57 

accused  of  the  atrocious  crime  of  being  partial  to  the 
"niggers."  "Where  were  you  in  '96  ?"  demanded  one 
man  of  another.  "  Ha  !  you  never  lifted  a  finger  then 
to  put  the  niggers  down.  You  would  not  risk  your  life 
as  I  did  and  eleven  others  with  me." 

I  inquired  what  this  upheaval  of  '96  was,  and  I 
learned  that  in  the  year  mentioned  the  county  had  a 
colored  sheriff.  He  was  capable  enough,  and  did  his 
duty;  but  he  was  black,  and  it  was  terribly  galling  to 
see  a  "nigger"  in  the  court-house  handling  white  men's 
money.  So  the  whites  determined  to  put  a  stop  to  such 
a  state  of  affairs,  and  twelve  men  with  guns  went  to 
the  polls  where  four  hundred  negroes  were  gathered. 
That  was  a  critical  moment;  but  the  blacks  did  not 
offer  resistance  and  hastened  to  get  away.  The  men 
with  guns  were  at  hand  all  day,  and  saw  to  it  that  the 
election  went  as  they  wanted  it  to  go.  Since  then  a 
black  man  rarely  or  never  comes  near  the  polls,  and 
the  twelve  men  are  proud  of  their  record,  and  consider 
themselves  patriots  and  liberators  worthy  of  special 
distinction. 

The  proceedings  of  election  day  at  the  schoolhouse 
culminated  in  a  dinner  supposed  to  be  served  at  two  in 
the  afternoon;  but  it  did  not  materialize  until  an  hour 
later,  when  an  old  colored  mammy,  with  a  basket  on 
her  arm,  made  several  journeys  to  the  polling-place 
from  a  villa  among  the  trees  across  the  road.  She 
came  in  at  the  rear  door  and  spread  forth  a  most  ample 


58     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  appetizing  feast  of  roast  chicken,  beef  steak,  pota- 
toes, rice,  shrimps,  cakes,  and  coffee.  I  was  present  as 
a  guest;  and  though  the  room  was  barn-like,  the  table- 
ware scanty,  and  the  slant-topped  desks  not  very 
well  suited  to  hold  one's  plate,  yet  the  affable  hospitality 
of  the  Louisiana  sugar  and  rice  planters  made  this  din- 
ner one  of  the  pleasantest  incidents  of  my  stay  in  that 
fertile  region. 

NOTE.  — Tourists  who  wish  to  see  the  sugar  and  rice  country  can,  with 
advantage,  make  New  Orleans  their  hotel  residence.  Go  from  there  by 
train  to  some  characteristic  village,  and  then  hire  a  team  and  drive  about. 
Accommodations  are  poor  in  the  rustic  hamlets,  yet  not  distressingly  so, 
and  many  persons  would  perhaps  enjoy  for  a  short  time  the  plain  fare 
and  rude  quarters.  The  life  on  the  big  plantations  is  decidedly  interest- 
ing, and  in  many  ways  unique. 


IN  THE  HEAT  OF  THE   DAY 


IV 

SPRING   IN  MISSISSIPPI 

IT  was  in  the  late  dusk  of  an  April  evening  that 
I  arrived  at  Vicksburg,  and  I  picked  out  a  hotel 
at  random.  My  choice  was  not  altogether  happy. 
The  building  was  big  and  gaunt,  and  the  worse  for  wear, 
and  the  rooms  were  barren  and  battered.  Yet  it  had 
the  interest  that  age  gives;  for  it  dated  back  beyond  the 
war,  and  its  proprietor  was  a  gray-bearded  ancient  who 
fought  in  the  Confederate  army.  It  stood  on  the  brow 
of  the  steep  hill  that  skirts  the  Yazoo  River,  and  from 
my  chamber  window  I  looked  down  on  the  stream  and 
the  lights  of  the  various  craft  that  were  moored  along 
shore.  Across  the  street  some  one  had  a  phonograph, 
and  the  hoarse  crackle  of  songs  and  jokes  from  the 
machine  was  pretty  constant;  but  in  the  intervals  I 
could  hear  from  the  lowlands  the  thrill  of  the  toad's 
long-drawn  gutturals. 

A  half-moon  was  shining  encircled  by  a  great  hazy 
ring.  Its  light  revealed  dimly  a  broad  reach  of  watery 
landscape  extending  far  westward.  Over  there  some- 
where, a  mile  or  two  away,  was  the  mighty  Mississippi. 
Formerly  it  made  a  wide  curve  and  swept  past  the  bluff 

59 


60     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

on  which  the  city  stands;  but  it  some  years  ago  cut 
through  a  neck  of  land  and  left  Vicksburg  stranded 
inland.  However,  before  the  old  channel  had  filled  up, 
the  Yazoo  was  induced  to  flow  through  it,  and  thus  the 
place  still  has  the  benefit  of  the  river  traffic. 

In  my  rambles  about  the  town  I  found  everywhere 
much  of  the  unexpected  and  picturesque.  The  build- 
ings cling  in  a  compact  mass  to  the  bluff  skirting  the 
river,  and  lift  one  above  the  other  on  the  precipitous 
slope  in  a  very  odd  jumble.  For  this  effect  the  lay  of 
the  ground  is  largely  responsible;  but  the  structures 
themselves  right  in  the  city  centre  often  offer  curious 
contrasts  of  the  substantial  and  modern  elbowing  the 
shabby  and  antiquated. 

The  queerest  part  of  the  city  is  on  a  big  rough  hill 
just  beyond  the  business  section  up  the  river.  This  hill 
is  nothing  but  clay;  yet  the  clay  is  so  firm  it  retains  its 
shape  even  on  slopes  almost  perpendicular.  On  the 
side  toward  the  stream  the  hill  rises  in  an  upright  wall, 
much  overgrown  with  trees,  grass,  and  shrubbery.  Now 
and  then  a  rude  little  hovel  finds  a  clinging-place  in 
some  irregularity  of  the  bluff;  and  there  are  occasional 
rough  ladders  and  stairways  that  give  access  to  the 
height.  The  upland  is  crowned  by  as  strange  a  helter- 
skelter  of  cabins,  fences,  paths,  and  devious  lanes  as 
ever  existed  in  any  African  jungle.  Every  household 
has  apparently  established  itself  at  chance,  and  the 
sight  of  such  an  assemblage  of  squatters'  cabins,  and 


Spring  in  Mississippi  61 

such  a  massing  of  suburban  population  as  the  half- 
wild  slopes  and  hollows  of  this  region  revealed,  was  in 
its  way  quite  impressive.  Most  of  the  houses  were 
built  of  wood,  but  there  was  one  rambling  dwelling  con- 
structed wholly  of  old  iron  rubbish,  "without  enough 
wood  in  it  to  make  a  good  fire,"  as  a  neighbor  explained. 
Its  owner  had  a  mania  for  collecting  discarded  metal, 
and  all  the  vicinity  of  his  castle  was  littered  with  heaps 
of  rusty  worthless  wreckage. 

I  stopped  to  speak  with  an  old  colored  woman  who 
was  preparing  to  wash  some  clothes  she  had  boiling  in 
a  kettle  set  on  a  little  fire  in  the  yard.  Her  poverty  was 
evidently  extreme,  and  in  our  chat  I  questioned 
whether  her  life  in  the  days  of  slavery  was  not  easier 
and  happier  than  now. 

She  said,  "No,"  very  emphatically;  and  added,  "We 
was  raised  up  jus'  like  cattle  is,  and  we  experienced 
hard  times,  mister,  we  shore  did.  I  rather  git  along 
wid  eatin'  wunst  a  week,  an'  den  only  bread  an'  water, 
dan  be  a  slave  wid  plenty.  If  you  was  a  slave  and  ran 
away  dey  had  nigger  dogs  to  chase  yo'  dat'd  tear 
yo'  all  up;  but  of  co'se  some  masters  was  a  heap 
meaner'n  yuthers.  Dey  didn't  keer  to  have  yo' 
know  nothin'.  Once  a  black  woman  started  to  learn 
us  out  of  a  blue-back  elementer  [Webster's  Blue- 
backed  Elementary  Speller],  an'  dey  whipped  her  all 
night.  We  had  to  work  long  days  den,  and  I  never 
seen  de  sun  rise  while  I  was  in  de  house.  I'd  be  in  de 


62     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

cotton  fiel',  and  many  a  time  I'd  be  wet  as  a  rat  wid 
de  dew." 

She  was  interrupted  by  her  husband,  a  gray  old  man, 
who  came  hobbling  up  the  hill  with  a  pail  in  one  hand 
and  a  hoe  which  he  used  as  a  cane  in  the  other.  He  had 
been  a  resident  of  the  place  since  childhood,  and  was  in 
the  city  when  Grant  besieged  it  in  1862.  Presently 
he  was  telling  of  his  war  experiences.  "Along  in  de  win- 
ter," said  he,  "  de  Union  men,  dey  closed  in  all  aroun'  us. 
Dey  held  de  river  up  above  an'  down  below,  an*  dey 
shut  us  off  on  de  Ian*  side,  too,  an*  vittles  begun  to  git 
sca'ce  an*  expensive.  By  de  end  er  March  dey  was 
a-firin'  der  shells  into  de  town,  knockin'  houses  to  pieces 
an'  killin'  folks,  and  ev'y  fambly  got  itself  a  cave  dug. 
Dis  hyar  clay  is  ve'y  good  for  cave  digging,  an'  dey 
hollowed  out  all  de  hillsides.  Each  fambly  had  a  room 
in  de  clay  wid  props  inside  to  keep  de  top  from  tumblin' 
down  on  'em;  and  some  made  two  rooms  wid  a  door 
between.  I  reckon  it  cost  as  much  as  fifty  dollars  to 
dig  de  best  caves.  Dey  had  beds  in  dar,  an'  when- 
ever de  guns  begun  a-bombangin'  dey  run  to  de  caves. 
Sometimes  dey  be  rouse  out  in  de  middle  er  de  night 
an'  run  fo'  de  caves  half  dressed.  De  caves  wa'n't  no 
ve'y  nice  places.  Dey  too  damp  an'  musty. 

"Supplies  was  all  de  time  harder  to  git,  till  we  hadn't 
no  coffee,  no  flour,  no  cloth,  no  shoes,  or  no  beef  meat; 
and  dey  print  de  newspaper  hyar  on  de  clean  side  er 
wall-paper.  People  got  to  eatin'  mule-meat;  an'  rats  was 


Spring  in  Mississippi  63 

killed  an'  skinned  an*  sol'  fo'  meat,  too.  Some  er  de 
soldiers  starved  to  death ;  an'  yit  dis  place  sich  a  natchul 
fortress  it  didn't  seem  like  de  Union  fellers  ever  git  it. 
Dar  was  guns  on  all  de  town  bluffs,  an'  we  had  one  gun 
we  call  *  Whistling  Dick,'  becaze  when  it  fire  a  shell  dar 
always  be  a  long  screechin'  soun*.  Dat  our  bes'  gun, 
an'  we  know  it  bus'  a  big  hole  in  de  Federal  army  ev'y 
time  we  hear  it  screech. 

"Well,  I  reckon  we  might  'a'  pulled  through  if  it 
hadn't  been  fo'  de  Union  gunboats.  We  been  thinkin' 
all  along  dey  couldn't  never  git  at  us,  caze  we  was 
boun'  to  knock  de  stuffin'  out'n  'em  if  dey  come  in 
sight.  But  one  night  I  happen  to  be  out  'bout  twelve 
o'clock,  an'  I  see  it  lighten ;  an'  yit  de  moon  was  shinin' 
an'  dar  was  no  clouds  or  soun'  er  thunder.  'Dis 
mighty  queer,'  I  say,  an'  I  run  an'  woke  up  my  master. 
We  went  den  an'  look  at  de  river,  an'  dar  was  de  Northern 
gunboats  wid  barges  er  hay  tied  to  'em  to  protect  'em. 
All  de  firm'  we  could  do  couldn't  stop  'em;  an'  after 
dat  it  didn't  seem  much  use  to  hoi'  out  no  longer.  So 
de  town  surrender,  and  I  jined  de  Union  army.  Yas, 
I  was  in  de  load  dozen  Massachusetts  regiment  under 
Lieutenant  Dodge." 

On  an  adjoining  hill  was  a  national  cemetery,  thick-set 
with  soldiers'  graves,  a  beautiful  spot,  quiet  and  green, 
and  receiving  the  best  of  care;  yet  it  was  nevertheless 
melancholy  and  lonely,  for  one  could  not  forget  that  the 
sleepers  there  were  far  from  home  and  all  their  kindred. 


64     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

In  a  little  glen  back  of  the  cemetery  was  a  tiny  white- 
washed cottage,  on  the  shadowed  side  of  which  sat  an 
elderly  colored  woman  and  a  small  girl  eating  bread 
and  milk.  Some  hens  and  chickens  were  picking 
around  and  watching  the  eaters,  hopeful  of  getting  a 
share  of  the  feast;  and  a  dog  lay  on  the  ground  also 
alert  and  expectant;  and  a  pig  was  rooting  close  by,  and 
he,  too,  seemed  to  be  watching  for  the  bestowal  of  a 
portion  of  the  bread  and  milk.  It  was  a  hot  afternoon, 
and  I  stopped  to  talk. 

Every  negro  at  all  advanced  in  years  has  something 
to  say  about  old  times,  and  the  woman  at  the  cabin  in 
the  glen  was  no  exception.  "I  was  raised  in  Ferginia," 
said  she;  "and  I  was  a  house  servant.  I  tell  you  I  had 
mo'  good  times  den  dan  I  do  now.  People  say  dat 
evy'thing  gittin'  better;  but  I  ain'  no  chicken,  an'  I 
know  dat  ain'  so.  I  been  thinkin'  'bout  de  chilluns. 
Are  dey  improve  ?  No !  Dey  ain'  smart  an'  dustless 
[industrious]  like  dey  was  befo'  de  war,  an'  dey  ain'  so 
mannerble,  white  or  black.  Den  again,  how  is  it 
.  about  de  Lord's  day  ?  Lots  o'  places  it's  gittin'  so 
dey  ain'  no  weeks.  Folks  work  Sundays  same  like 
any  other  days.  Yas,  de  worl'  mo'  wicked.  Is  you 
been  in  dese  yere  Vicksburg  saloons  ?  I'm  skairt  to 
go  near  de  town  in  de  night  dar  so  much  rippin'  an' 
tearin'.  Dey  got  so  bold  an'  rapid  aroun'  hyar  I  doan' 
hardly  want  to  go  out  er  my  house  even  in  de  daytime. 
It  look  like  we  so  wicked  we  be  punish  soon  by  a  great 


A  DUGOUT 


- 

OF  THE 


OF 


Spring  in  Mississippi  65 

burnin'.  De  sun  a  ball  er  fire,  an'  de  moon  a  lump  er 
ice ;  an'  I  reckon  if  de  sun  git  de  upper  ban*  we're  all 
goners.  Yo'  know  how  Martinique  done  got  burnt  up. 
Once  las'  year  it  was  so  hot  hyar  I  thought  de  heat 
gwine  serve  us  de  same  way.  Soon  or  late  it's  a-comin'. 
De  Bible  say  de  rainbow  sign  make  us  know  de  worl' 
be  no  mo'  destroy  by  water.  It  be  fire  nex'  time." 

I  spoke  to  the  woman  about  the  shops  in  the  town 
owned  by  negroes ;  but  she  said  there  ought  to  be  more, 
and  she  was  not  enthusiastic  over  the  thrift  of  her  race. 
"If  a  darkey  got  money  he  boun'  to  spend  it,"  said  she. 
"He  know  he  ain'  gwine  git  rich  anyway,  so  he  doan' 
try  to  save  nothin'.  Den,  too,  a  colored  man  think  he 
cain't  start  in  business  widout  he  got  'bout  a  thousand 
dollars;  but  a  white  man  will  start  wid  no  mo'  dan  a 
few  peanuts  an'  a  little  popcorn  in  a  basket.  He  lays 
up  de  nickels  an'  dimes,  an'  pretty  soon  he  git  a  store, 
an'  fust  thing  yo'  know  he  way  up." 

Just  then  the  little  girl  exclaimed,  "I  done  seen  a 
rabbit  over  dar  in  de  briers." 

"  Dat  remin'  me  er  de  stories  dey  use  to  tell  'bout  de 
rabbit  an'  de  yuther  creeturs  when  I  was  a  chile," 
remarked  the  woman.  "I  thought  den  de  tales  was  all 
true,  and  I  was  sure  Mr.  Rabbit  ketch  us  if  we  go  down 
to  de  branch  in  de  evenin' ;  an'  if  we  see  Mr.  Rabbit, 
den  we  chilluns  would  light  out,  skeered  to  death." 

"What  were  the  stories  ?"    I  questioned. 

She  responded  with  a  series  of  several  which  she  told 


66     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

with  great  animation,  acting  out  all  the  parts  and 
changing  her  voice  to  suit  the  words  of  the  different 
characters,  and  now  and  then  rising  and  skirmishing 
around  the  yard  to  illustrate  the  more  dramatic  portions. 

"Well,"  said  she  in  beginning,  "de  stories  was  mos'ly 
about  how  'mongst  all  de  creeturs  Mr.  Rabbit  was 
de  smartest  man  in  de  crowd.  He  was  a  sly  rascal, 
he  sho'  was.  One  day  when  Mr.  Rabbit  an'  Mr.  Fox 
was  talkin'  togedder,  Mr.  Lion  an'  Mr.  Tiger  drove  pas' 
wid  a  load  er  fish. 

"'Look  a'  darl'says  Mr.  Rabbit.  'I  want  some  er 
dose  fish.' 

"'But  yo'  cain't  git  'em,'  says  Mr.  Fox. 

"'Yes,  I  kin,'  says  Mr.  Rabbit;  an'  he  cry  out,  'Hoi' 
on,  Mr.  Lion  !  Hoi'  on,  Mr.  Tiger !' 

"Dey  stop,  dey  did,  an'  he  run  an'  jump  up  on  de 
fish  wagon.  De  lion  an'  de  tiger,  dey  order  him  off. 
Den  he  run  'way  up  de  road  an'  hide  in  de  bushes,  an' 
when  de  fish  wagon  come  along  he  holler  out,  'Whoop, 
whoop,  whoop,  diddle-um-ding,  varmints  of  all  kinds, 
lions  an'  tigers,  an'  dey  cain't  keep  my  th'oat  cl'ar!' 

"'Heyo!  Mr.  Lion,'  says  Mr.  Tiger.  'What  dat  ? 
I  reckon  we  better  be  gittin'  along  in  a  hurry.' 

"So  dey  whip  up  de  hoss.  But  Mr.  Rabbit  run  fas' 
as  he  kin  an'  git  ahead  once  mo'  in  de  bushes,  an'  soon 
as  dey  come  along  he  holler,  'Whoop,  whoop,  whoop, 
diddle-um-ding,  varmints  of  all  kinds,  lions  an'  tigers, 
an'  dey  cain't  keep  my  th'oat  cl'ar!' 


Spring  in  Mississippi  67 

"Dat  skeer  Mr.  Lion  an'  Mr.  Tiger  so  much  dey 
jump  off  de  wagon  an'  run  like  dey  sent  for.  Den 
Mr.  Rabbit  he  drive  off  wid  de  fish,  an'  de  nex'  day  he 
'pint  a  time  fo'  a  big  feast.  All  Mr.  Rabbit's  frien's 
come  excep'  Mr.  Fox,  an'  bimeby  he  come  too,  but  he 
was  all  limpy  an'  rasslefrassled.  '  Boo-hoo-hoo ! '  he 
cry,  'I  done  met  up  wid  Mr.  Lion  an'  Mr.  Tiger,  an* 
dey  'cuse  me  er  stealin'  der  fish;  and  dose  fellers,  dey 
mos'  tore  me  all  to  pieces.' 

"Dat  de  way  de  rabbit  always  doin'  de  mischief,  an' 
some  one  else  gittin'  punish  fo'  it.  Yas,  de  rabbit 
mighty  slick.  He  de  cunningest  liT  ole  creetur  in  de 
woods.  Sometimes  when  he  chased  by  dogs  he  find 
a  long  holler  log  lyin'  on  de  groun'  wid  a  hole  jus'  large 
enough  fo'  him  to  slip  thoo',  an'  he  go  in  one  end  an' 
out  de  yuther.  De  dog  foller  his  track  to  de  log,  an' 
he  spen'  his  time  pawin'  at  de  place  de  rabbit  went  in, 
an'  de  rabbit  git  safe  home.  But  his  bes'  trick  when 
he  runnin'  from  de  dog  is  to  take  a  circle  aroun'  an' 
come  back  to  his  track,  an'  dar  he  stop  an'  lick  his 
paws  to  take  off  de  scent.  Nex'  thing  he  fotch  a  few 
jumps  out  sideways,  an'  sit  still  an'  let  de  dog  run 
pas'.  Den  he  go  off  about  his  business." 

MR.    FOX    LEARNS   WHAT  TROUBLE    IS 

"In  dese  ole  stories  de  rabbit  always  on  a  com- 
plaint when  dar  any  work  to  do,  an'  he  never  leave  off 
tellin'  about  his  troubles.  One  day  Mr.  Fox  say  to 


68     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

him,  'Seem  like  you  have  troubles  all  de  time,  Mr. 
Rabbit/ 

"'Yas,'  Mr.  Rabbit  reply,  'ev'ybody  always  atter  me, 
diggity-diggity,  an'  I  have  nothin'  but  trouble/ 

"'Well  now,  Mr.  Rabbit,'  de  fox  say,  'I  wish  yo' 
'splain  to  me  what  trouble  is.  I  doan'  know  rightly  what 
yo'  mean  by  trouble/ 

"'I  cain't  tell  yo'  de  meanin'  er  de  word,'  s^ys  Mr. 
Rabbit;  'but  I  kin  show  you  de  meanin'/ 

'"I  wish  yo'  would,'  says  Mr.  Fox.  'I  done  heard 
yo'  talk  so  much  about  trouble  I  want  to  understan' 
what  it  is  like/ 

'"Ve'y  well,'  Mr.  Rabbit  'sponds,  'de  nex'  hot  day 
yo'  go  out  in  dat  ole  fiel'  near  my  house,  an'  yo'  lie 
down  an'  sleep  dar  on  de  knoll  whar  de  sage  grass  grow 
thick,  an'  I'll  come  an'  wake  yo'  up  an'  show  yo'  what 
trouble  is/ 

"So  de  nex'  hot  day  de  fox  go  to  de  ole  fiel'  an'  lie 
down  on  de  knoll  in  de  sage  grass,  an'  pretty  soon  he 
soun'  asleep.  Mr.  Rabbit  come  an'  fin'  him  dar,  an' 
den  he  set  de  grass  on  fire  in  a  ring  all  aroun'  Mr.  Fox. 
Soon  as  he  done  dat  he  give  a  yell  an'  say,  '  Mr.  Fox ! 
Mr.  Fox !  /o'  wake  up,  an'  doan'  was'e  no  time  'bout 
it,  needer!' 

"Mr.  Fox,  he  wake  up,  an'  he  say,  'What  all  dis 
smoke,  what  all  dis  fire  I  smell,  Mr.  Rabbit?' 

'"Dat  trouble,  Mr.  Fox,  dat  trouble,'  says  Mr. 
Rabbit,  an'  he  lit  out  fo'  home. 


BESIDE  THE   «<  BAYOU 


OF  THE 

4    UNIVERSITY  )j 

OF 


Spring  in  Mississippi  69  . 

"Mr.  Fox  certainly  learnt  what  trouble  was,  an*  he 
come  mighty  nigh  bein'  burnt  to  death." 

MR.    WREN    BORROWS    MONEY   OF    MR.    BUZZARD 

"Did  yo'  ever  hear  er  how  de  wren  borrowed  some 
money  er  Mr.  Buzzard  ?  Mr.  Buzzard,  he  willin'  to 
'commodate  Mr.  Wren,  only  he  ask,  'When  yo'  gwine 
pay  me  ?' 

"Soon  as  I  git  growed,'  says  Mr.  Wren.  'Soon  as  I 
git  to  yo'  size,  Mr.  Buzzard/  says  he. 

"So  Mr.  Buzzard  loant  him  de  money,  and  atter 
dat,  once  in  a  while  he  call  on  Mr.  Wren  to  see  when 
dat  money  be  paid  back.  Mr.  Wren  always  say,  'Soon 
as  I  git  growed ;'  but  ev'y  time  Mr.  Buzzard  take  notice 
Mr.  Wren  ain'  gittin'  no  larger  at  all. 

"Mr.  Buzzard  was  mos'  as  slow  in  his  thinkin'  as 
Mr.  Wren  was  in  his  payin,'  but  at  las'  he  begin  to 
suspect  somethin*  not  right,  an'  he  speak  to  Mr.  Hawk 
'bout  de  matter.  'What  kin'  of  a  man  is  dis  Mr. 
Wren?'  he  say.  'He  been  owin'  me  money  dese  five 
or  six  years,  an'  he  say  he  pay  when  he  git  growed;  but 
he  de  same  size  now  as  when  he  borrow  it.  Look  like 
he  never  git  growed.' 

"How  dis  ?'  says  Mr.  Hawk.  'Do  you  reckon  Mr. 
Wren  gwine  git  to  be  de  same  size  as  you  an'  me?' 

"I  shore  does,'  says  Mr.  Buzzard. 

"Dat's  whar  yo'  make  a  mistake,'  Mr.  Hawk  say. 
'He  big  as  he  ever  will  be.  Why  !  Mr.  Wren  was  a  ole 


70     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

man  when  he  borrowed  dat  money,  an'  yo'll  never  see  it 
—  not  if  yo'  wait  fo'  ever ! ' ' 

JOHNNY  AND  TOMMY  AND  THE  BEAR 

The  little  girl  had  been  an  interested  listener  to  these 
narratives.  Now  she  asked,  "What  dat  story,  granny, 
'bout  Johnny  and  Tommy?" 

"One  time,"  resumed  the  old  woman,  "two  boys  by 
de  name  er  Johnny  an'  Tommy  was  out  in  de  woods 
an'  dey  come  to  a  tall,  hollow  stump,  and  dey  heard 
some  b'ar  cubs  inside.  Dey  want  to  git  dem  cubs,  an' 
Johnny  clumb  up  to  de  top  er  de  snag  an'  went  down 
inside  an'  caught  'em.  Den  he  foun'  he  couldn't  git 
back.  'What  I  gwine  do?'  he  holler  to  Tommy. 

"'Have  yo'  got  a  knife  ?'   Tommy  say. 
'Yes,'  says  Johnny. 

"'Well  den,'  Tommy  tol'  him,  'when  de  b'ar  come 
she'll  go  down  into  de  holler  stump  backward,  an' 
when  she  git  low  enough  yo'  ketch  her  by  de  tail  an' 
prick  her  wid  yo'  knife,  an'  she'll  pull  yo'  out  er  dar  in 
a  hurry.' 

"So  Tommy  hid  off  in  de  bushes  to  see  what  gwine 
happen,  an'  about  sundown  de  ole  b'ar  come  an'  climb 
de  stump  an'  back  down  out  er  sight.  Johnny  all 
ready,  an'  he  got  de  cubs  fastened  to  him  tied  up  in  his 
jacket.  Soon  as  de  b'ar  got  whar  he  could  reach  her 
he  grip  her  tail  an'  prick  her  wid  his  knife,  an'  up  she 
scramble  draggin'  him  atter  her.  Den  Tommy  holler 


Spring  in  Mississippi  71 

out,  '  Hang  on,  Johnny !     Tail  holt  is  a  mighty  good 
holt!' 

"An*  Johnny  did  hang  on,  an'  soon  as  he  got  to  de 
top  he  give  de  b'ar  a  push  an'  she  tumble  down  an'  was 
killed,  an'  de  boys  got  de  cubs  an'  de  b'ar,  too." 

THE    STORY   OF   THE    FRAIDS 

"I  remembrance  'bout  anudder  HT  boy  who  had  to 
go  ev'y  evenin'  to  de  pasture  to  drive  home  his  master's 
cows.  He'd  start  at  three  o'clock,  but  he'd  stay  foolin' 
off  his  time  and  never  would  git  back  till  dark.  De 
road  pass  a  graveyard,  an'  his  master  say  to  him,  'Ain' 
yo'  skeered  to  come  by  dat  graveyard  atter  dark  ?' 

" '  No,  sir,'  de  liT  boy  say.     '  What  for  I  be  skeered  ? ' 

"'Why,  dar's  fraids  dar,'  de  man  say. 

"'What's  dem?'  de  liT  boy  ask. 

"Ghos'es  an'  things  all  in  white,'  de  man  say;  'an' 
if  dey  cotch  yo'  dat  de  end  er  you.' 

'Well,  I  ain'  never  seen  none  yit,'  de  boy  say. 

"Den  de  man  tell  hisse'f  dat  he  ain'  gwine  have  de 
boy  wastin'  so  much  time  as  he  been  a-doin',  an'  he 
think  he  give  him  a  skeer  dat  make  him  come  home 
earlier.  So  de  nex'  night  he  cover  hisse'f  wid  a  white 
sheet  an'  go  hide  in  de  graveyard.  But  it  happen  de 
man  have  a  monkey  dat  always  try  to  do  ev'ything  jus' 
like  he  see  his  master  do;  an'  dat  monkey,  he  git  a 
pillow-slip  an'  put  it  over  hisse'f  an'  foller  his  master 
to  de  graveyard.  De  man,  he  didn't  see  de  monkey, 


72     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

an'  he  git  on  a  tombstone,  an'  de  monkey  git  on  annudder 
tombstone  behind  him.  Pretty  soon  de  boy  come  along 
whistlin'  an'  drivin'  de  cows.  Den  de  man  raise  up  an* 
squat  down  in  his  white  sheet,  an'  de  monkey  in  de 
pillow-slip  done  de  same.  De  boy  stop  an'  point  an' 
say,  'Dar's  two  fraids  —  big  fraid  an'  HT  fraid.' 

"De  man  doan'  understan'  what  dat  talk  mean  'bout 
de  liT  fraid,  an'  he  look  aroun',  but  de  monkey  had 
jump  down  out  er  sight.  De  man  begin  his  motions 
ag'in  to  try  to  skeer  de  boy,  an'  de  monkey  git  up  an* 
do  de  same.  De  boy  point  wid  his  finger,  an'  he  holler 
out  de  secon'  time,  'Dar's  two  fraids,  big  fraid  an' 
liT  fraid.' 

"At  dat  de  man  turn  aroun'  quick,  an'  see  de  yuther 
white  thing,  an'  he  git  a  great  fright  an'  broke  an'  run, 
an'  de  monkey  foller  him  fast  as  he  could  go.  Den  de 
boy  wid  de  cows  holler,  'Run  big  fraid  or  liT  fraid'll 
cotch  you ! ' 

"What  de  boy  had  see  didn't  skeer  him,  an'  it  didn't 
make  him  no  quicker'n  he'd  been  befo'.  Seem  like 
yo'  couldn't  learn  some  folks  nothin'  nohow." 

My  landlord  at  the  hotel  had  mentioned  that  there 
was  "a  heap  of  powerful  pretty  country  under  water 
along  the  river";  and  one  day  I  made  a  trip  to  an 
outlying  village  to  see  how  the  people  fared  in  the  sub- 
merged districts.  At  this  particular  place  they  took 
the  flood  philosophically  enough.  They  were  in  no 
danger  —  simply  inconvenienced.  Some  of  the  land 


Spring  in  Mississippi  73 

and  houses  had  not  yet  been  touched,  but  the  majority 
of  the  dwellings  were  quite  Venetian,  and  were  either 
awash  with  the  water,  or  were  on  a  narrow  island  that 
had  been  the  breastwork  of  a  war-time  fort.  I  hired  a 
negro  to  take  me  for  a  row,  and  he  called  my  attention 
to  stains  on  the  whitewashed  walls  of  some  of  the  cabins 
that  showed  last  year's  flood  had  been  up  to  the  window- 
sills.  "Floods  like  dat  is  a  bad  thing/'  explained  my 
companion.  "Dey  ramshacks  de  floor,  an'  de  furniture 
all  comes  to  pieces  atterwards." 

The  village  people  owned  quite  a  flotilla  of  boats, 
some  of  which  were  dugouts.  These  dugouts  were 
usually  of  cypress  and  looked  clumsy  and  ugly,  but 
the  village  storekeeper,  with  whom  I  became  ac- 
quainted, told  me  they  were  very  serviceable.  "You 
don't  want  to  git  careless,  though,  or  they'll  capsize," 
he  added.  "I  mighty  nigh  got  drowned,  havin'  one  turn 
over  under  me  this  year.  I  was  duck-shootin',  and  I 
had  a  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollar  gun  that  I 
was  boun'  to  hang  on  to  whatever  happened.  Another 
boat  come  to  my  help,  and  I  got  into  it,  and  the 
thing  was  all  over  so  quick  I  didn't  have  time  to  git 
scared;  but  when  I  was  safe  I  shook  like  I  had  the 
ague." 

There  was  no  levee  along  here,  and  the  man  said 
they  didn't  want  one.  The  flood  fertilized  their  land, 
and  on  the  whole  was  a  benefit.  They  always  waited 
till  the  spring  rise  was  over  before  planting  much, 


74     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

though  the  water  now  and  then  would  come  up  in  the 
summer  and  do  a  great  deal  of  damage. 

One  of  the  local  citizens  who  attracted  my  notice 
was  a  big-framed  and  very  fleshy  black  man.  He  looked 
so  superlatively  lazy  and  amiable  and  talkative  that  I 
had  the  curiosity  to  ask  how  he  got  along  in  the  world. 
I  was  surprised  to  learn  that  he  owned  a  little  farm, 
and  was  prosperous.  Yet  he  did  no  work  on  his  home 
place,  because  he  claimed  to  have  heart  trouble.  His 
family  took  care  of  his  garden,  and  he  carried  a  load  of 
truck  to  town  every  week.  That  sold  for  four  or  five 
dollars,  which  was  money  enough  to  make  him  inde- 
pendently rich.  I  first  came  across  him  sitting  by  a 
roadside  ditch  chatting  with  a  woman  who  was  fishing. 
The  woman  was  not  catching  anything,  and  seemed 
minded  to  quit.  "Yo'  think  yo'  luck  won't  come?" 
he  inquired  sympathetically. 

"Too  much  fraish  water,"  she  responded. 

"Yas,  dat  de  trouble,  sure  as  de  truf,"  said  the  man. 
"De  fish  swim  all  aroun'  de  fiel's  now  an'  git  all  dey 
want  to  eat,  so  dey  won't  bite  yo'  hook.  Dem  fish  jus' 
as  fat  as  hogs.  It  no  sati'faction  to  fish  when  dey 
dataway." 

"Las'  week  de  fish  in  dis  hyar  bayou  bite  as  soon  as 
I  put  de  hook  in  de  water,"  remarked  the  woman. 

"Maybe  dat  de  consequence  again  when  de  river  go 
down,"  the  man  said  encouragingly.  "Joe  tell  me  he 
git  plenty  spearin'  'em  wid  his  gig  at  night." 


Spring  in  Mississippi  7^ 

"How  does  he  do  it?"    I  asked. 

"He  go  in  his  boat  wid  a  torch,"  was  the  reply,  "an' 
de  light  draw  de  fish  an'  blin'  'em,  an'  he  plunge  his 
gig  into  'em,  an'  dar  he  have  'em." 

Not  far  away  were  some  children  with  poles  and  lines 
lingering  along  the  banks  of  the  ditch  catching  craw- 
fish. They  were  quite  successful,  or,  as  the  fat  negro 
said,  "  Dey  do  everlastingly  cotch  'em  now,  don't  dey  ? 
I  reckon  dey  gwine  have  'em  fo'  dinner.  Summer 
time,  when  de  ponds  are  low,  yo'  c'n  take  a  rake  an' 
scoop  out  crawfish  by  de  hundred.  Yo'  tote  'em  home 
an'  po'  hot  water  on  'em  an'  den  pull  de  bark  off'n 
'em,  an'  de  tail  is  rael  nice.  We  fry  de  meat  jus'  like 
fish,  an'  it's  better'n  fish  fo'  eatin'  because  dar  ain't 
no  bones." 

The  most  interesting  excursion  I  made  from  Vicks- 
burg  was  a  steamboat  trip  in  the  Elk  forty  miles  down 
the  river.  We  started  at  noon  of  a  quiet  sunny  day 
that  was  too  hot  on  the  land,  but  very  comfortable  on 
the  water.  Another  steamer  left  the  city  at  the  same 
time,  and  each  tried  to  get  ahead  of  its  rival;  but  we 
were  gradually  left  behind.  Every  one  on  board  was 
interested  in  the  race,  and  the  officers  made  many 
excuses  for  our  defeat  —  the  boat  was  not  loaded  right 
for  speed,  some  of  the  paddle  blades  were  broken,  etc. 
Among  the  passengers  was  an  old-time  river  captain. 
To  him  the  race  was  peurile.  "By  Jove!  you  ought 
to  see  how  they  did  things  thirty  years  ago,"  he  said. 


76     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"Once  I  raced  all  the  way  from  New  Orleans  to  St. 
Louis.  My  boat  was  beaten  and  I  lost  nine  thousand 
dollars  that  I  bet  on  her.  There  was  a  big  lot  o'  money 
changed  hands  every  race  when  the  boats  was  well 
matched.  In  the  years  just  after  the  war  steamboatin' 
was  a  big  thing.  I  made  one  trip  up  the  Missouri  as 
far  as  Bismarck  that  give  the  owners  of  my  steamboat 
a  profit  of  $110,000;  and  every  man  on  the  boat  made 
all  the  money  he  wanted,  besides.  We  traded  with  the 
Indians,  and  you  could  get  twenty  dollars'  worth  of 
furs  for  a  string  of  beads  that  cost  five  cents." 

Now  the  Elk  slowed  up  to  make  a  landing,  and  the 
other  boat  went  on  down-stream  like  a  beautiful  white 
water-creature  and  disappeared  from  view.  We  had 
stopped  at  a  choppers'  camp,  and  in  the  near  woods  I 
could  see  tents  and  oxen.  At  the  shore  were  several 
waiting  negroes.  They  wore  red  shirts  that  made 
striking  bits  of  color  amid  the  wild  greenery  of  the 
woodland.  The  water  was  up,  lapping  the  banktop, 
and  the  boat  swung  about  in  the  swift,  boiling  current, 
and  pushed  its  bow  snug  to  the  shore.  Our  black 
roustabouts  promptly  got  a  rope  around  a  tree,  laid  a 
couple  of  planks  from  the  boat  to  the  land,  and  hustled 
off  the  bags  and  parcels  that  were  to  be  left.  Then  we 
went  on,  and  we  had  the  river  all  to  ourselves  for  the 
rest  of  the  journey.  Its  vast  loneliness  was  quite 
impressive,  and  it  must  have  appeared  much  the  same 
in  the  days  of  its  first  explorers.  Nearly  always  the 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Spring  in  Mississippi 

banks  were  wooded,  but  there  were  occasional  open- 
ings affording  glimpses  of  plantation  fields  and  a  scat- 
tering of  cabins.  From  time  to  time  we  would  butt  up 
to  the  bank  and  discharge  or  take  on  freight,  and  the 
boat  went  over  the  same  route,  doing  this  twice  a  week 
the  year  through. 

The  passengers  included  four  young  men  who  were 
making  the  round  trip  for  an  outing.  They  spared  no 
effort  to  have  a  glorious  time,  and  their  visits  to  the  bar 
were  almost  unceasing.  The  capacity  they  displayed 
for  stowing  away  liquor  was  a  marvel;  and  they  were 
very  social  and  affectionate,  not  only  among  themselves, 
but  with  every  one  on  board.  Sometimes  they  engaged 
in  a  tipsy  race  about  the  deck.  Sometimes  they  en- 
twined their  arms  around  one  another  and  half  sat, 
half  lay  in  the  deck  chairs.  Sometimes  they  felt  their 
biceps  and  challenged  each  other  to  fight.  The  rest  of 
us  dodged  them  when  we  could.  Even  the  pilot,  when 
they  came  to  the  supper  table,  to  which  he  had  just  sat 
down,  rose  hastily  and  left.  "Here,  come  back!"  one 
of  the  rioters  called  after  him.  "You  got  any  objec- 
tions to  my  company  ?  I  ain't  no  ghost.  I  ain't  no 
haunt/' 

Again  and  again  they  treated  to  drinks  and  cigars 
the  officers  of  the  boat,  the  passengers,  and  such  of  the 
crew  as  they  happened  to  meet.  Once  I  saw  their 
leader  step  up  to  the  mate,  pluck  a  half-smoked  cigar 
from  his  lips,  and  throw  it  into  the  water.  At  the  same 


78     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

time  he  handed  out  another.  "Have  a  good  cigar," 
he  said. 

Among  the  persons  treated  by  the  picnickers  were  a 
couple  of  negro  convicts  who  were  manacled  hand  to 
hand.  Their  melancholy  plight  touched  the  tender 
sympathies  of  their  benefactors.  "You  are  black," 
said  one  of  the  quartet;  "but  I  have  a  heart,  and  I  feel 
for  you.  Here,  drink  another  bottle  of  beer;  and,  boys, 
take  my  advice  —  behave  yourselves  while  you  are 
serving  out  your  time,  and  when  they  set  you  free  live 
right  and  don't  get  into  the  same  trouble  again." 

The  prisoners  were  on  their  way  to  a  convict  camp, 
where  they  were  to  work  out  their  fines  at  the  rate  of 
four  dollars  a  month.  Presently  we  approached  their 
destination,  and  the  steamboat  gave  a  shrill  hoot  with 
its  whistle,  as  it  always  did  when  we  were  about  to  stop. 
The  banks  here  were  low  enough  so  that  the  flood  cov- 
ered them  and  allowed  us  to  go  back  to  the  levee. 
Behind  the  embankment  were  numerous  barns  and 
cabins,  and  a  big,  wide-spreading,  white  mansion  in  a 
grove.  It  was  a  great  event  on  the  plantation  to  have 
the  steamer  come  so  near,  and  quite  a  concourse  of 
negro  women  and  children  gathered  on  the  bank  to 
chatter  and  laugh  while  they  watched  the  rousters 
hurry  the  freight  to  shore.  We  passengers  looked 
down  on  the  crowd  from  the  upper  deck,  and  one  of 
the  happy  four  swung  a  beer  bottle  in  the  air  and  asked 
if  any  of  those  on  the  levee  wanted  a  drink.  "I'll 


Spring  in  Mississippi  79 

treat,"  he  cried.  "  Have  some  ?  Now  laugh !  What 
are  you  all  standing  there  for  anyway  ?  Those  roust- 
abouts you're  lookin'  at  are  tired.  Go  tell  'em  you'll 
unload !  Let  the  women  do  the  work,  I  say !  Let 
the  women  do  the  work!  Now  laugh  again!" 

He  drank  the  beer  himself,  and  went  down  on  the 
levee.  There  he  found  a  small  boy  whose  apparel 
was  amazingly  scanty  and  ragged,  and  he  asked,  "Are 
those  the  best  clothes  you've  got?" 

"Yas,  sir." 

"Why,  they  are  all  to  pieces,  and  the  buttons  are 
gone." 

"Yas,  sir." 

"You  ain't  fit  to  be  seen.     Don't  you  know  that?" 

"Yas,  sir." 

"Well,"  said  the  fellow,  thrusting  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  pulling  out  several  silver  coins,  "take  this 
money  and  go  buy  yourself  some  clothes,  and  hurry  up 
about  it." 

The  boy  took  the  money  and  ran  off",  and  we  saw  him 
no  more. 

We  were  a  long  time  unloading;  for  there  was  an 
immense  deal  of  cattle  feed  and  farm  supplies  and  house- 
hold goods  in  great  variety  to  be  left.  This  convict 
camp  was  a  big  plantation,  and,  like  many  other  planta- 
tions, it  had  people  enough  on  it  to  make  a  good-sized 
village.  Our  rousters  carried  out  most  of  the  freight 
on  their  heads  or  shoulders,  and  their  celerity  and  deft- 


8o     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

ness  in  the  heavy  labor  were  a  wonder.  Two  of  them 
stayed  on  the  lower  deck  and  heaved  up  a  burden  to 
each  man  in  turn,  and  the  leader  of  the  two  often  broke 
forth  in  a  strange  chant,  to  which  the  other  responded 
like  an  echo.  This  chant  was  a  monotone  consisting  of 
an  improvised  sentence  shouted  each  time  a  bag  or  box 
was  lifted  to  a  waiting  roustabout.  The  fragments 
were  such  as  these :  — 

First  voice.    I  ain'  gwine  leave  yo'  he-ere ! 

Response.  —  leave  yo'  he-ere. 

First  voice.    Take  yo'  load  if  yo'  pie-ease ! 

Response.  —  if  yo'  pie-ease. 

First  voice.    Oh,  Lord  !     Oh,  Lord  ! 

Response.  —  Oh,  Lord  ! 

First  voice.    I'm  gwine  live  a  long  ti-ime ! 

Response.  —  a  long  ti-ime. 

First  voice.    Yo'  doan'  know  what  trouble  I've  seen  ! 

Response.  —  what  trouble  I've  seen  ! 

Though  to  me  the  roustabouts  seemed  so  alert  and 
willing,  they  were  not  at  all  satisfactory  to  the  mate, 
who,  puffing  viciously  at  a  cigar,  was  constantly  urging 
them  to  greater  haste,  and  once  in  a  while  he  let  off  an 
explosion  of  oaths.  The  captain  told  me  he  had  known 
the  mate  to  throw  a  rouster  that  was  lazy  right  over- 
board. "You've  got  to  be  rough  with  'em,"  he  con- 
tinued. "They're  a  hard  lot,  and  every  man  of  'em 
at  the  end  of  the  trip  will  spend  or  gamble  away  the 
two  dollars  he's  earned  in  the  low  dives  of  Vicksburg." 


Spring  in  Mississippi  8 1 

Yet  as  far  as  their  work  was  concerned  he  preferred 
them  to  whites ;  for  none  but  negroes  would  contentedly 
"eat  hardtack "  and  snatch  such  sleep  as  the  exigencies 
allowed,  "with  a  lump  of  coal  for  a  pillow." 

Toward  evening  we  entered  a  twenty-mile  bend  that 
the  river  had  deserted  long  before,  and  which  had  since 
been  known  as  Lake  Palmyra.  But  during  this  year's 
high  water  the  river  had  torn  through  into  the  upper  end 
of  this  ancient,  stagnant  channel,  and  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  current  now  went  that  way  instead  of  by 
the  cut-off.  The  river  is  always  tearing  away  at  the 
banks  —  an  aggressive,  unfeeling  monster.  It  will  wash 
off  hundreds  of  acres  of  an  exposed  plantation  in  a 
single  season.  But  when  it  washes  on  one  side  a  sand 
bar  starts  opposite  and  soon  rises  above  low  water, 
begins  to  grow  to  willows,  and  at  length  builds  up  so 
that  it  can  be  cleared  and  cultivated.  The  stream  pro- 
gresses by  many  loops  through  the  bottom  lands,  and 
often  it  cuts  across  the  neck  of  the  loops  so  that  the 
valley  is  full  of  these  abandoned  channels;  but  the 
return  of  the  stream  to  an  old-time  course  is  something 
unusual. 

The  weather  had  become  threatening,  and  the  sun, 
low  in  the  west,  had  been  gradually  effaced  in  a  gloom 
of  thickening  cloud.  A  rough  wind  arose,  and  there 
was  a  dash  of  rain.  We  had  come  to  another  stopping- 
place,  and  pushed  up  into  the  willows  skirting  the  bank 
until  we  could  run  our  gang-plank  to  land  near  a  store- 


82     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

house.  While  we  were  getting  the  goods  to  shore  the 
clouds  lifted  in  the  west,  and  the  sun  shone  out  and 
sparkled  on  the  waves  and  painted  the  misty  east  with 
a  long  streak  of  rainbow,  and  glorified  the  whole  land- 
scape with  amber  light.  It  was  a  scene  enchanted. 

Night  came  presently,  but  our  journey  continued 
with  its  frequent  stops  as  before.  One  of  our  last  calls 
was  at  a  place  where  we  went  from  the  main  channel 
back  across  country  a  mile  or  so.  At  first  we  followed 
a  creek  in  the  tall  woods,  and  so  narrow  was  the  stream 
that  we  sometimes  snapped  off"  the  branches  on  one 
side  or  the  other.  Then  we  came  to  more  open  country, 
where  the  brilliant  eye  of  our  searchlight  revealed  here 
and  there  a  gaunt  dead  tree  and  a  half-submerged  barn, 
and  in  spots  we  could  see  the  tops  offence  posts.  Occa- 
sionally we  scraped  bottom,  and  the  mate  stood  near  the 
prow  dropping  the  lead  and  calling  out,  "Half  twain  - 
three  feet  and  a  half —  mark  twain,"  etc. 

It  was  a  delicate  piece  of  navigation,  and  not  only 
was  there  danger  of  getting  aground,  or  staving  a  hole 
on  a  snag,  but  the  wheel  might  wind  up  a  barbed  wire 
fence  which  would  be  no  less  serious.  However,  we 
continued  safely  to  a  levee,  where  a  bent  little  old  man 
was  waiting  with  a  lantern,  and  walking  about  to  keep 
warm  in  the  clear  chill  night  air.  Not  far  away  was  a 
group  of  sheds,  and  the  rest  was  woods.  When  we 
finished  unlading,  the  bales  and  bags  and  boxes  lay  in 
half  a  dozen  piles,  covering  the  levee  for  some  distance. 


Spring  in  Mississippi  83 

Now  the  boat  backed  around,  and  picked  a  cautious 
passage  to  the  main  waterway. 

About  midnight  we  left  Lake  Palmyra  by  forcing  our 
way  against  the  tumultuous  current  pouring  through 
the  new  crevasse,  and  then  struggled  on  up-stream 
toward  Vicksburg.  Every  one  who  could  went  to  bed, 
but  the  berth  assigned  to  me  was  in  the  same  room  with 
one  of  the  drunken  celebrators,  and  I  preferred  to  let 
him  have  the  entire  space.  In  the  first  gray  of  the 
morning  we  arrived  at  Vicksburg;  and  though  the  trip 
was  not  all  pleasure,  I  disembarked  pretty  well  satisfied 
with  its  varied  sights  and  experiences. 

NOTE.  — Vicksburg,  by  reason  of  the  part  it  played  in  the  Civil  War, 
is  one  of  the  best-known  and  most  interesting  towns  in  the  South.  The 
battle-field  is  a  national  park.  It  covers  a  wide  area,  and  for  most  persons 
the  best  way  to  see  it  is  by  driving.  The  town  itself  is  remarkably 
picturesque,  and  one  ought  to  do  a  good  deal  of  rambling  on  foot  to 
really  appreciate  the  exhilarating  changes  of  view,  and  the  odd  environ- 
ment of  some  of  the  humbler  habitations.  Vicksburg  is  an  admirable 
place  from  which  to  make  a  river  trip.  Few  people  would  however 
enjoy  being  on  a  Mississippi  steamboat  more  than  a  day,  as  the  lower 
river  is  very  monotonous.  My  experience  would  indicate  that  it  is  desir- 
able to  carry  along  something  to  eat  when  making  a  trip  on  a  local 
steamer,  for  the  food  that  will  be  furnished  is  likely  to  be  very  bad.  In 
Vicksburg,  as  in  nearly  all  Southern  cities,  only  the  best  hotels  are  really 
satisfactory. 


V 

COTTON   PATCH   LIFE    IN  TENNESSEE 

I  WAS  only  a  short  distance  from  Memphis,  yet 
the  region  was  almost  as  raw  and  rustic  as  if  there 
had  not  been  a  large  town  within  a  hundred 
miles.  To  be  sure  great  fields  of  corn  and  cotton  were 
numerous;  but  I  did  not  have  to  go  far  to  strike  the 
forest,  and  only  a  few  decades  have  passed  since  the 
woodland  was  nearly  omnipresent.  The  trees  have 
been  laid  low  to  make  fence  rails  and  railroad  ties,  and 
to  supply  fuel  for  the  old,  wood-burning  locomotives. 
Much  of  what  was  cut  was  ruthlessly  wasted  or  sold 
for  a  song.  "If  the  timber  was  standing  now  that  was 
hyar  twenty  years  ago,"  said  one  man,  "we'd  all  make 
our  fortunes  handling  it.  Why,  I've  chopped  down  a 
coon  tree  and  let  it  lie  and  rot  that'd  be  worth  forty 
dollars  to-day." 

The  spring  was  backward,  but  the  corn  had  been 
planted  and  was  beginning  to  come  up,  and  the  cotton 
fields  had  been  ploughed  and  ridged  and  much  of  the 
seed  was  in.  On  my  first  day,  work  was  pretty  much 
at  a  standstill,  for  a  heavy  rain  the  previous  night  had 
converted  the  fields  into  mud  and  bog. 

84 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  85 

I  started  out  for  a  ramble,  and  as  long  as  I  kept  to 
the  "pike"  the  travelling  was  fairly  good;  but  as  soon 
as  I  turned  off  on  to  a  dirt  road  I  was  in  sticky  red  clay, 
and  had  to  pick  my  route  with  caution.  There  were 
more  blacks  than  whites  in  this  region,  and  the  country 
was  dotted  over  with  their  cabins.  Many  of  the  huts 
were  made  of  logs,  and  they  were  all  primitive.  Some 
were  so  rudely  constructed,  and  so  open  to  the  onsets 
of  the  storms,  you  wondered  how  they  could  be  used 
for  dwellings.  The  old  lanes  along  which  these  homes 
were  scattered  were  very  wild  and  picturesque.  There 
were  stumps  in  them  and  occasional  large  trees,  while 
along  the  fences  grew  briers  and  bushes.  Frequently 
they  were  hardly  more  than  a  cart  track  wide,  and  were 
so  rough  and  rutted  as  to  be  practically  impassable  for 
a  Christian  vehicle.  In  explanation  of  the  badness  of 
these  byways,  I  was  told  that  only  negroes  lived  along 
them;  and  that  therefore  the  local  authorities  never 
troubled  themselves  to  "work"  the  roads.  "Dey 
think  anything  will  do  fo*  colored  folks,"  was  one 
negro's  comment. 

A  rural  delivery  route  ran  through  the  district,  and 
nearly  every  dwelling  had  its  metal  box  set  out  by  the 
roadside  on  a  post.  The  white  people  owned  their 
boxes  at  a  cost  of  a  dollar  and  thirty  cents;  but  they 
told  me  that  the  negroes  mostly  rented  theirs  from  a 
Memphis  daily  newspaper,  and  paid  sixty-five  cents  a 
month  for  box  and  paper.  A  representative  of  the  paper 


86     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

had  explained  to  the  negroes  that  they  could  not  have 
boxes  except  on  these  conditions,  and  that  if  they  were 
without  a  box  they  could  only  get  their  mail  by  going  to 
Memphis  for  it.  Many  of  them  did  not  want  the  paper 
and  could  not  afford  the  expense,  but  they  were  too 
inexperienced  to  comprehend  the  swindle  or  to  know 
what  to  do  about  it.  The  colored  families  are  apt  to 
take  a  religious  weekly,  and  every  negro  has  thoughts 
and  opinions  on  the  topics  of  the  time,  especially  on 
those  that  affect  his  own  race;  but,  as  one  of  them  said, 
"Hit  doan'  do  to  talk  much  or  we  git  into  a  heap  er 
trouble.  We  low-born,  an'  the  white  folks  are  not 
likin'  us  to  say  anything." 

The  commonest  type  of  negro  home  in  the  neighbor- 
hood was  a  long,  single-story  structure,  with  a  kitchen  at 
one  end  and  sleeping  apartments  at  the  other,  and  an 
open  passage-way  between,  known  as  "the  entry." 
This  entry  served  to  separate  the  heated  kitchen  from 
the  rest  of  the  dwelling,  and  was  a  combination  of  porch, 
shed,  and  open-sided  room  for  work  and  loitering.  Its 
walls  and  roof  made  a  handy  hanging-place  for  all  sorts 
of  articles.  The  chimneys  were  outside  at  the  ends  of 
the  house.  They  were  usually  of  wooden  slats  thickly 
bedaubed  with  a  mixture  of  clay  and  dry  grass.  "De 
clay  an'  grass  chimney  ain'  ve'y  endurable,"  I  was 
informed,  "an'  in  about  fo'  years  dey  have  to  be  built 


over." 


Toward  noon   I   passed  through  a  long  stretch  of 


THE  SITTING   HEN'S   PRISON   COOP 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  87 

woodland.  OfF  among  the  trees  I  could  hear  the  ding- 
dong  of  cowbells,  the  cooing  of  turtle-doves,  the  drum- 
beat of  the  "peckerwoods,"  and  the  trilling  and  twitter- 
ing and  whistling  of  a  multitude  of  other  birds.  The 
wind  rustled  softly  through  the  new  foliage  and  the  air 
was  permeated  with  the  odors  of  spring.  Here  and 
there  were  dashes  of  dogwood  bloom,  and  patches  of 
May-apple  were  coming  into  flower  on  the  ground. 
I  stopped  for  dinner  at  a  farmhouse.  The  place  was  a 
half-wild  sort  of  a  ranch,  the  house  badly  out  of 
repair,  and  in  the  home  yard  roamed  numbers  of 
turkeys,  ducks,  hens,  goats,  and  hogs.  Two  of  the 
older  girls  had  been  busy  that  morning  picking  up 
the  dry  last  year's  stalks  in  the  corn  field  and  piling 
them  to  burn.  One  of  the  boys,  about  ten  years  old, 
had  been  ploughing  with  a  mule. 

We  ate  in  the  hot  and  grimy  kitchen.  Pork  and 
mustard  greens,  corn-bread  and  coffee,  were  chief  on 
the  bill  of  fare.  The  farmer  suggested  I  might  prefer 
milk  instead  of  coffee,  and  he  poured  a  glass  for  me; 
but  one  taste  was  enough.  The  children  of  the  family 
drank  it  freely,  and  the  man  also  took  a  tumblerful. 
As  he  finished  it  he  casually  remarked  that  the  milk 
was  a  little  sour.  I  wondered  that  he  said  "a  little," 
for  it  was  half  curdled. 

He  entertained  me  very  handsomely  and  exemplified 
what  he  called  "the  old-fashioned  Southern  hospi- 
tality," that  was  "glad  to  see  you  come,  and  sorry  to 


88     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

see  you  go."  He  observed  further,  that  "Befo'  the 
war  nothing  gave  a  man  more  pleasure  than  to  do  honor 
to  his  guest.  You  were  treated  with  special  respect, 
even  at  the  hotels.  Why,  I  used  to  know  a  landlord 
who,  after  a  man  registered,  always  wrote  in  front  of 
the  signature  'Capt./  'Maj.,'  or  'Col.,'  so  that  no  one 
stopping  at  his  hotel  failed  to  have  a  military  title. 
He  was  a  genuine  polished  old-style  gentleman,  and 
his  guests  was  all  treated  like  they  was  persons  of 
distinction." 

My  host  said  he  was  going  fishing  later  in  the  day. 
"This  is  just  the  right  time  of  year  for  it,"  he  declared. 

'"Dogwood  white 
Fisher*  s  delight/ 

you  know.  Every  old  colored  woman  gets  her  hook 
and  line  ready  when  the  dogwood  blossoms,  and  so  do 
all  the  rest  of  us." 

By  night,  when  I  returned  to  my  boarding-place,  the 
weather  had  turned  cold,  and  the  next  day  was  so  chilly 
and  clouded  I  stayed  indoors  most  of  the  time.  A  rude 
wind  buffeted  the  trees  and  soughed  wearily  about  the 
house,  and  I  sat  beside  the  kitchen  fireplace  to  enjoy 
the  grateful  heat  of  the  brisk  fire  that  was  kept  burning 
there.  The  gloomy  skies  and  the  bleak  and  boisterous 
wind  seemed  to  put  my  landlady  in  a  mood  for  telling 
ghost  stories.  "The  first  thing  I  remember  of  my  child- 
hood," said  she,  "is  of  sitting  out  on  the  porch  of  a 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  89 

moonlight  night  and  hearing  the  darkies  tell  about  the 
witches.  When  I  went  to  bed  I  was  so  scared  thinking 
a  witch  might  come  through  the  keyhole,  I  jus'  couldn't 
sleep. 

"The  niggers  have  a  lot  of  queer  ways.  They  take 
poisonous  snakes'  heads  and  pound  'em  up  with  other 
poisonous  things  to  put  in  hoodoo  bags;  and  then  they 
hide  the  bags  under  the  doorstep,  or  in  the  bed  of  the 
person  they  want  to  harm.  Once  I  was  sick  for  a  long 
time  and  no  one  could  make  out  what  the  trouble  was. 
At  last  the  house  burned  and  most  everything  in  it; 
but  we  saved  my  feather  bed,  and  I  tore  it  up  to  make 
pillows.  Inside  I  found  a  hoodoo  ring  made  of  feathers 
twisted  into  a  band  or  ring  fifteen  inches  across,  and 
tied  to  it  was  a  hundred  or  more  little  bags.  I  put  it  in 
the  fire,  and  after  that  I  got  well.  I  'spose  I'd  been 
inhalin'  the  poison. 

"When  you  was  in  Memphis  did  you  see  Brinkley 
Hall  ?  I  went  to  school  there.  Well,  one  night  my 
room-mate  and  me  was  sitting  together  with  a  lighted 
lamp  on  our  table.  Suddenly  some  one  blew  out  the 
light,  and  the  lamp  chimney  went  on  the  floor  and  was 
smashed.  We  was  all  in  darkness,  and  we  ran  to  the 
door.  It  was  a  door  that  never  would  close  tight;  but 
it  was  tight  shut  now  and  we  couldn't  get  out.  We 
heard  some  one  walking  in  the  room  over  the  broken 
glass  of  the  lamp  chimney,  and  we  began  to  scream. 
The  girls  in  the  rooms  near  us  came  to  our  door,  and 


90     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

we  told  them  what  had  happened,  and  how  we  couldn't 
get  out.  They  laughed  at  us,  but  when  they  listened 
and  heard  the  footsteps  they  went  to  shrieking.  That 
brought  the  principal  running  up  the  stairs,  and  he 
opened  the  door;  but  there  was  nothing  to  see  only 
some  broken  glass  on  the  floor  and  us  two  girls  limp 
with  fright. 

"After  that  all  sorts  of  things  happened  at  the  school. 
The  girls  used  to  hear  the  noise  of  water  falling  on  the 
floor,  and  bells  would  ring  with  no  one  ringing  them; 
and  there  was  one  scholar  named  Flora  Robinson  who 
would  go  into  a  trance,  and  see  a  little  girl  in  a  pale 
pink  dress  who  kept  following  her.  Once  the  little  girl 
had  her  take  a  pencil  and  write,  and  the  writing  said 
that  if  Flora's  folks  would  dig  in  a  certain  place  they'd 
find  jars  with  papers  in  'em  showing  that  Brinkley  Hall 
belonged  to  the  Robinsons.  So  her  folks  got  some  men 
to  dig  in  that  place,  and  a  few  feet  down  they  came  to 
a  brick  wall,  and  they  tore  that  to  pieces  and  found  three 
glass  jars,  and  they  could  see  money  and  papers  inside. 
They  decided  to  let  the  jars  stay  right  there  till  next  day 
when  they  would  open  'em  before  proper  authorities. 
A  man  stood  guard;  but  during  the  night  he  was 
knocked  on  the  head,  and  the  jars  was  stolen.  So 
much  had  happened  that  the  school  broke  up,  and 
Brinkley  Hall  with  its  forty  rooms  is  vacant  yet. 

"Another  strange  thing  in  my  own  experience  hap- 
pened after  my  husband  died.  He  was  very  fond  of 


OF  y 

PAUFJR^X 


ON  THE    PORCH 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  91 

music,  and  in  his  last  sickness  he  said  if  he  could  return 
to  earth  he  would  make  his  presence  known  by  playing 
the  piano.  One  day  just  at  supper  time,  after  he'd  been 
dead  about  two  weeks,  I  heard  the  piano  play.  All  the 
children  heard  it,  too,  and  we  jumped  up  from  the  table, 
scared  to  death.  I  said  I  never  would  want  to  use  that 
piano  again,  and  I  sent  it  to  Memphis  to  be  sold." 

My  landlady  in  concluding  urged  me  to  call  on  a 
negro  family  by  the  name  of  Houston  that  lived  next 
door  and  ask  them  what  they  knew  about  witches  and 
other  occult  things.  Their  house  was  in  a  yard  full  of 
trees,  and  its  aspect  was  rather  pleasant  from  a  distance, 
but  when  I  got  a  close  view  I  found  it  was  shabby  and 
decrepit.  I  was  welcomed  into  the  kitchen,  a  dismal 
place  that  gloomy  day  in  spite  of  the  flames  flickering 
in  the  fireplace.  The  floor  sagged  dubiously,  the  ceiling 
was  brown  with  smoke,  and  panes  were  missing  from 
the  windows,  and  the  holes  stuffed  with  rags.  News- 
papers were  pasted  in  a  queer  motley  over  the  walls. 
The  room  had  two  beds.  On  one  of  them  lay  a  gun. 
A  sick  girl  was  in  the  other,  and  the  rest  of  the  family 
sat  in  a  circle  at  the  borders  of  the  rough,  deepworn 
hearth  doing  very  little  except  to  spit  into  the  fire  at 
frequent  intervals.  Mrs.  Houston  and  her  two  daugh- 
ters each  had  a  wad  of  snuff  inside  of  her  under  lip. 
My  landlady  had  mentioned  that  a  pedler  of  spectacles 
had  recently  been  along.  "He  had  two  qualities,"  said 
she,  "one  for  white  folks  at  a  dollar  and  a  half,  and  one 


92     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

for  darkies,  with  brass  bows,  at  seventy-five  cents. 
Houston  bought  a  pair  for  himself,  and  a  pair  for  the 
old  woman.  He  wanted  his  oldest  girl  to  have  a  pair, 
too,  because  they  were  fashionable,  but  she  wouldn't." 

Sure  enough,  when  I  entered  the  kitchen,  Mr.  Houston 
went  to  the  window-sill  and  got  his  spectacles,  and  handed 
his  wife  hers,  and  they  both  put  them  on.  We  were  soon 
talking  about  the  mysteries,  and  Mr.  Houston  said :  "De 
witches  ride  our  horses  at  night.  In  de  mornin'  we'll 
find  der  manes  and  tails  full  of  witches  stirrups  —  de 
ha'r  all  twisted  and  tangled  up.  It  couldn't  twis'  itself 
up  dataway,  an'  yo'  cain't  pick  de  ha'r  straight  in  an 
hour.  You  have  to  cut  it.  You  can  lock  yo'  horses  up 
an'  tie  'em  tight  as  yo'  please ;  but  it  make  no  dif'runce, 
de  witches  git  'em  an'  use  'em  jus'  de  same.  Some- 
times, too,  de  witches  come  in  de  house  when  you  asleep 
an'  ride  you,  an'  you  wake  up  all  tired  an'  lame." 

"  I  doan'  min'  de  witches  so  much  as  de  conjurations," 
remarked  Mrs.  Houston. 

"Well,"  said  the  man,  "if  yo'  find  a  conjure  thing,  all 
yo'  got  to  do  is  to  put  some  silver  money  in  yo'  shoes, 
an'  you  c'n  walk  over  it  widout  gittin'  any  harm." 

"But  it  ain'  often  yo'  find  it  befo'  hand,"  she  ob- 
jected, "an'  I  doan'  want  to  keep  money  in  my  shoes 
all  de  time." 

"My  oldes'  girl,  Em'line,  was  tricked  once,"  the 
man  went  on.  "She'd  have  a  pain  in  her  breast,  an' 
nex'  minute  de  pain  would  be  in  her  side,  an'  den  in  her 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  93 

back  —  de  pain  keep  movin'  aroun'  all  over  her  an* 
was  worryin'  her  to  death.  We  went  after  a  medical 
doctor,  and  when  he  see  her  he  turn  white  an'  scratch 
his  haid  an'  look  like  he  scared.  He  did  de  bes'  he 
could  fo'  her,  but  ev'y  bit  er  de  medicine  what  he  give 
her  she  throwed  up.  We  tried  some  mo'  doctors,  an' 
dey  ev'y  one  give  her  a  round  er  medicine;  but  none  of 
'em  couldn't  help  her.  She  had  spells  like  she  was 
dyin'  an'  got  black  under  her  eyes  an'  round  her  lips, 
an'  she  said  it  no  use  to  sen'  fo'  any  one  else.  But  we 
went  an'  got  a  hoodoo  doctor  from  Memphis.  Soon 
as  he  come  he  say  to  her,  'Who  you  shuck  hands  wid  ?' 

"She  tol'  him  she  ain't  shuck  hands  wid  nobody; 
but  he  say  some  one  had  hoi'  er  her  hand  shore,  an'  he 
describe  de  man,  an'  she  know  who  de  man  is.  He  a 
feller  what  been  wantin'  to  marry  her.  We  try  to  raise 
our  children  nice  an'  'spectable,  an'  we  want  'em  to  keep 
de  bes'  company  dar  is,  an'  dat  feller  too  no  account. 
So  she  wouldn't  have  him.  She  say  she  ain't  shuck 
hands  wid  him;  but  one  day  she  climbin'  up  a  bank,  an' 
dat  man  had  caught  her  by  de  arm  an'  holp  her  up,  an' 
no  sooner  did  he  do  dat  dan  she  fin'  herse'f  havin'  de 
trembles.  De  hoodoo  doctor  he  listen  an'  lif  his 
eyebrows;  but  he  'pear  not  to  be  satisfied  yit.  He  look 
aroun,'  an'  he  say,  'Dar  somethin'  bad  in  dis  hyar 
house;'  an'  he  ask  Em'line,  <Whar  dose  pillows  on  yo' 
bed  been  to  ?' 

"Den  he  took  'em  an'  rip  'em  open,  an'  dar  was  a 


94     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

conjure  thing  big  as  yo'  fis'  in  each  one.  It  was  a  piece 
er  cloth  wid  wax  on  both  sides,  an*  all  kind  er  feathers 
quirled  aroun'  and  aroun'  in  de  wax.  De  hoodoo 
doctor  pass  one  to  me,  but  when  I  took  it  in  my  han' 
a  cramp  run  plumb  up  in  my  shoulder.  I  couldn't 
hoi*  it.  Nex'  thing,  de  doctor  look  at  de  bottles  er 
medicine  on  de  table,  an'  set  'em  all  aside,  an'  toP  us 
not  to  use  'em  no  mo'.  Den  he  give  Em'line  a  little 
shot  er  quicksilver  an'  she  swallow  it  an'  was  cured. 
I  done  heard  that  quicksilver  is  death  fo'  a  well  person 
to  take  any  of  it;  but  if  yo'  been  conjured  it  ketch  de 
pizen  an'  doan'  hurt  yo'  none." 

"Yo'  c'n  tell  whether  yo'  been  tricked,"  said  Mrs. 
Houston,  "by  takin'  a  piece  er  silver  money  an'  sleepin' 
wid  it  in  yo'  mouth.  If  yo'  been  conjured,  de  silver, 
in  de  mornin',  be  jus'  as  black  as  a  coal  wid  spots  er 
yaller  like  copper  on  it." 

"De  hoodoo  doctor  charge  ten  dollars  fo'  what  he 
done,"  Mr.  Houston  resumed.  "Dat  a  heap  to  pay, 
an'  yit,  if  I  was  took  sick  bad,  I  shore  would  send  fo' 
him." 

"De  same  feller  what  trick  Em'line  made  de  attemp' 
atterward  to  conjure  de  whole  chu'ch,"  said  Mrs. 
Houston. 

"Yes,"  observed  Mr.  Houston,  "I  see  him  put  a  little 
mess  under  de  chu'ch  doorstep  an'  bury  it.  I  didn't 
know  certain  what  he  doin',  but  I  step  aroun'  it  when 
I  went  in.  Yuthers,  dey  step  over  it,  an'  dey  git  con- 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  95 

jured.  Our  preacher  man,  he  git  conjured,  too,  an' 
no  sooner  is  he  preachin'  dan  he  make  out  like  he 
mighty  happy,  an'  he  put  his  arms  round  de  sisters  an' 
hugged  'em.  I  reckon  if  he  hadn't  been  wearin'  a 
silver  watch  which  kind  er  protect  him,  he'd  been  killed. 
My  nephew  was  took  sick  at  de  same  time  right  dar  in 
meetin',  an'  I  tol'  him  what  de  matter  was.  So  he 
jump  on  a  mule  an'  rode  as  fas'  as  he  could  to  de  doctor 
to  git  himself  worked  on.  Atter  meetin'  I  took  a  stick 
an'  pull  de  conjure  thing  out  from  under  de  doorstep, 
an'  de  nex'  Sunday  we  discuss  de  matter  in  de  chu'ch 
to  see  what  we  better  do  about  de  feller;  but  he  had 
skipped,  an'  he  ain'  been  round  hyar  since." 

"I  mighty  glad  he  gone,  too,"  Mrs.  Houston  com- 
mented. "De  way  he  done  trick  Em'line  give  me  de 
worst  scare  I  had  since  freedom.  Yas,  dat  de  bigges' 
shakeup  I  ever  expe'ence,  excep'  in  de  war  when  dey 
had  a  battle  near  whar  I  lived.  Oh,  my  Lord,  how 
dey  fought !  We'd  hearde  guns  a-firin'  fast  as  dey  could 
pop,  an'  once  in  a  while  a  big  cannon  would  bang.  De 
Southern  soldiers  went  marchin'  past,  back  an'  forth, 
an'  dey  go  all  through  people's  fields.  Lord  'a'  mercy ! 
dey'd  throw  down  de  fences  dat  was  in  de  way,  an* 
make  a  wide  dusty  road  right  through  de  green  fields. 
Den  de  Northern  soldiers  come,  thousands  an'  millions 
of  'em,  I  reckon,  an'  dey  took  all  our  horses  an'  mules, 
an'  all  de  hams  out  er  our  smoke-houses.  Some  er  de 
white  folks  would  hide  der  things,  but  de  Northern 


96     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

soldiers  would  git  hoi'  er  de  darkies  an*  threaten  to  kill 
'em  if  dey  didn't  tell  whar  de  things  was.  Dey  begun 
to  build  forts,  an*  dey  tell  de  planters  to  sen'  der  darkies 
to  help.  One  mighty  mean  man  said  he  wa'n't  gwine 
have  his  darkies  workin'  fo'  de  North.  So  dey  took 
his  two  sons  an'  put  dem  at  diggin'.  Dat  make  him 
think  he  made  a  mistake,  an'  he  didn't  was'e  no  time 
in  bringin'  de  darkies  to  take  his  sons'  place." 

"I  holped  de  Republican  party  build  dem  breast- 
works," declared  Mr.  Houston.  "Dat  de  fust  work  I 
done  fo'  de  Republican  party.  It  wa'n't  long  befo'  de 
Rebs  had  been  run  out  from  aroun'  hyar.  De  cars  kep' 
comin'  all  de  time  loaded  inside  an'  outside  wid  Repub- 
lican party  soldiers,  an'  in  der  uniforms  dey  look  jus' 
like  bluebirds.  Some  colored  men  jine  de  Republican 
party  army  an'  went  to  fight,  an'  dey  want  me  go  too; 
but  I'd  got  a  wife,  an'  I  didn't  want  to  be  separate  from 
her  an'  perhaps  never  see  her  again.  Besides,  I  didn't 
know  whether  de  North  gwine  beat,  though  it  look  mo' 
bad  fo'  de  South  all  de  time.  Yit  I  kep'  out  er  de  army 
way  to  de  end,  becaze  I  reckoned  if  de  Republican 
party  win,  I  be  free  whedder  I  fight  or  not.  If  she  git 
licked  I  better  not  be  too  much  mix  up  in  de  rumpus." 

Back  of  the  village  to  the  east  was  a  wide  expanse  of 
corn  and  cotton  fields  extending  over  to  some  woods 
along  a  creek.  Bordering  the  woods  were  frequent 
cabins,  and  these  were  connected  with  the  village  by 
irregular  paths  skirting  the  ditches  and  edges  of  the 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  97 

fields  and  occasionally  taking  a  straight  cut  across  the 
cultivated  grounds.  Most  of  this  land  rented  for  five 
dollars  an  acre.  Corn  and  cotton  were  the  chief  crops, 
but  some  of  it  was  planted  to  potatoes  and  pease.  In 
good  weather  the  region  is  very  Jbusy  with  men,  women, 
and  children  intent  on  earning  the  money  to  pay  the 
rent  and  get  a  living  for  themseves.  They  begin  to  put 
in  the  cotton  seed  when  the  scrub  hickory  buds;  and 
a  white  man  told  me  that  negroes  depended  so  much  on 
nature  thus  to  indicate  the  proper  time,  that  "If  the 
scrub  hickory  didn't  never  bud  they  wouldn't  never 
expect  to  plant." 

A  month  later  the  cotton  is  ready  for  its  first  "  chop- 
ping" -  that  is,  hoeing.  They  start  picking  in  Septem- 
ber, and  money  is  then  more  plentiful  than  at  any  other 
season.  Most  of  the  negroes,  in  addition  to  caring  for 
their  own  crops,  do  a  good  deal  of  picking  for  the  whites. 
The  pay  is  fifty  to  seventy-five  cents  a  hundred,  and  the 
day's  labor  begins  as  soon  as  the  dew  dries  and  ends  a 
half  hour  before  sunset.  "It's  fun  to  any  one  to  pick 
cotton,"  an  old  woman  said  to  me.  "I've  picked  over 
two  hundred  in  a  day  many  a  time,  and  nursed  my  baby 
and  milked  my  cow  and  cooked  dinner  fo'  me  an'  my 
ole  man  an'  three  chillen.  De  men  de  bes'  pickers. 
Some  of  'em  certainly  can  snatch  it.  De  women  gits 
tired  in  de  back,  an'  de  men  dey  hoi'  out  longer.  When 
dere's  a  prize  offered  I  seen  men  pick  much  as  four 
hundred  pounds  er  dis  yer  big  boll  cotton  in  one  day." 


98     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  fields  are  at  their  whitest  just  after  the  first 
frosts.  Then  all  the  bolls  open  and  the  cotton  patches 
look  as  if  there  had  been  a  fall  of  snow.  The  frost  also 
loosens  the  cotton  and  makes  picking  easy.  The  work 
goes  on  for  many  weeks,  and  there  is  some  desultory 
gleaning  all  through  the  winter.  One  famous  cotton 
picker  is  "Uncle  Henry,"  reputed  to  be  over  a  hundred 
years  old.  He  never  cuts  his  finger  nails,  because  he 
wants  them  to  grow  long,  so  he  can  have  their  aid  in  get- 
ting the  cotton  quickly  out  of  the  bolls.  I  called  on  him 
one  day  at  his  house,  and  as  I  approached  I  heard  him 
singing  a  curious  negro  hymn. 

"  A  gospel  hook  got-a-hung  to  my  heart, 
Eli  shoutin'  in  de  heaven,  '  Good  Lord  ! 
Good  Lord !  Good  Lord ! ' 
Eli  shoutin'  in  de  heaven,  '  Good  Lord ! '  ' 

His  home  was  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  a  white- 
washed log  dwelling  with  a  huddle  of  little  outbuildings 
and  fenced  enclosures  roundabout.  Uncle  Henry  was 
sitting  by  the  kitchen  fire  entertaining  several  grand- 
children. The  grizzled  old  negro  looked  to  be  about 
fourscore;  but  he  had  no  doubt  he  was  entitled  to 
thirty  years  more,  and  said  there  were  lots  of  colored 
people  one  hundred  and  twenty  and  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  years  of  age.  He  remembered  dis- 
tinctly the  "falling  of  the  stars"  in  1833,  and  any 
negro  whose  memory  has  that  span  is  a  patriarch 
of  his  race.  Aside  from  the  war,  that  is  the  greatest 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  99 

event  of  modern  times  in  the  chronicles  of  the  colored 
folks. 

"I  was  about  ten  years  ole,  I  reckon,"  said  Uncle 
Henry,  "and  I  was  out  playin'  hide  and  coop  wid  a 
parcel  er  white  boys,  an'  we  thought  it  was  a  snow- 
storm at  de  start.  Den,  de  fust  news  I  knew  my 
mammy  an*  missis  was  a-hollerinj  an*  cryin',  'Lord 
have  mercy !  Lord  have  mercy ! '  an'  sayin'  it  was  de 
end  er  de  worl'.  My  missis  made  noise  enough,  I  can 
tell  yo'  dat.  I  never  beared  such  a  voice  as  dat  woman 
had.  One  er  our  men  was  name  Dave  Tucker,  an* 
he  was  de  only  man  on  de  place  what  could  hive  bees. 
When  de  bees  swarmed  he  bleeged  to  come,  an'  my  ole 
missis  could  holler  an'  call  him  from  five  miles  away. 

"Dat  night  I  speakin'  about  it  appear  like  ev'y  star 
in  de  sky  was  a-fallin'.  Some  er  de  boys  try  to  cotch 
'em  in  der  hats,  but  de  stars  go  out  befo'  dey  git  to  de 
groun'.  Dey  lit  up  de  whole  earth,  an'  as  dey  fell  dey 
made  a  sissin'  soun'  like  de  soun'  er  draps  er  water 
thrown  on  a  hot  skillet.  My  oldes'  brudder,  he'd  been 
out  'mongst  de  gals  dat  night,  an'  he  was  on  his  journey 
home  when  he  heard  de  roarin'  er  de  stars  a-fallin',  an' 
he  thought  de  whole  elements  was  burnin'  an'  de  judg- 
ment come.  He  reckoned  his  time  was  out,  an'  de  got 
down  den  an'  dar  on  his  knees  an'  he  prayed,  'O  Lord, 
come  quickly,  come  quickly,  I  greatly  need  yo'!' 

"Dem  dat  hadn't  never  prayed  in  der  lives  prayed 
a  HT  bit  dat  night,  an'  I  hear  tell  er  one  man  —  an' 


ioo     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

he  was  a  ve'y  ole  man  too  —  he  ain'  been  use  to  prayin', 
an*  he  try  to  say  de  Lord's  Prayer;  but  when  he  git  to, 
'Thy  kingdom  come,  thy  will  be  done,'  he  kind  er 
mixed,  an'  he  say  instead,  'Lord,  kick  'em  as  dey 
come!'  Yas,  it  scare  us  all,  an'  in  less'n  two  weeks 
ev'ybody,  white  an'  black,  got  religion.  Dar  was  mo' 
religion  dan  enough." 

When  I  left  Uncle  Henry  one  of  his  grandsons  be- 
came my  guide  on  the  uncertain  paths  that  linked  cabin 
to  cabin  and  connected  them  with  the  village.  He  told 
me  about  a  gun  he  had,  and  how  he  had  shot  rabbits 
and  tried  to  shoot  ducks. 

"What's  that  bird  we  hear  in  the  tall  trees  just 
ahead?"  I  interrupted. 

"Dat's  a  kind  er  a  liT  ole  bird  call'  a  wren,"  was  the 
reply. 

Then  he  pointed  out  a  redbird  and  some  "jay 
birds,"  and  said,  "De  redbird  de  prettiest  bird  we  got. 
Dar's  lots  er  birds  hyar  —  peckerwoods  an'  sapsuckers 
an'  yallerhammers  an'  robins;  an'  dar's  de  rain  crows 
what  set  up  in  de  trees  an'  holler  when  it's  fixin'  for  to 
rain;  an'  a  liT  ole  speckle  bird  call  a  thrush.  Some  er 
de  birds  are  good  to  eat,  an'  in  de  winter  time  I  knock 
'em  down  wid  a  stick.  Dey  roun'  stumps  atter  some- 
thing to  feed  on,  an'  it  so  col'  dey  won't  hardly  fly.  Yo' 
be  astonish'  how  col'  it  is  hyar  sometimes ;  but  in  sum- 
mer, it  often  so  hot  we  cain't  scarcely  stay  in  our  clothes. 
We  gwine  along  de  bottoms  near  de  crick  now.  Yo' 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  101 

hear  all  dat  hollerin'  over  dar  ?  Dat  de  spring  frogs. 
Dey  a  liT  muddy  color  frog  no  bigger  dan  de  end  er 
my  thumb.  Dey  de  firs'  frog  in  de  spring.  De  toad 
frog  an'  de  bullfrog  doan'  come  until  it  git  right  warm." 

The  boy  was  surprisingly  keen  in  his  knowledge  of 
the  little  creatures  of  the  fields  and  woods.  He  was 
himself  a  child  of  nature,  a  companion  of  the  wild, 
whose  world  was  narrow,  but  not  by  any  means  unin- 
teresting. Nor  was  he  at  all  unusual.  Most  of  the 
blacks  are  well  versed  in  this  sort  of  lore,  and  in  a 
simple  way  the  field,  the  forest,  and  the  air  serve  them 
for  the  information  and  entertainment  which  most  of  us 
go  to  books  to  gain. 

The  labor  of  the  families  who  depended  on  the  cotton 
patches  for  a  living  did  not  seem  to  me  to  yield  very 
satisfactory  returns.  Few  are  able  to  attain  a  safe 
prosperity,  and  poverty  stalks  along  behind  most,  ever 
threatening  to  drag  them  off  their  little  holdings.  Such 
conditions  were  often  revealed  to  me  by  my  chance 
acquaintances.  For  instance,  I  one  day  stopped  a  negro 
who  was  driving  a  farm  cart  through  the  spring  mud  of 
the  highway  and  asked  directions.  While  we  were 
talking  a  colored  woman  came  plodding  along  and 
spoke  to  the  man.  "Hit  been  a  long  time  since  I  seen 
you,  Brother  Bealy,"  said  she.  "How  yo'  gittin'  on  ?" 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  had  a  hard  expe'ence  dis  las' 
winter  wid  de  rheumatism;  but  hit  has  let  up  on  me 


some  now." 


IO2     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"Yo'  luck  sholy  have  been  bad,  Brother  Bealy," 
said  the  woman  sympathetically. 

"I  done  met  some  heavy  ole  jars,  Sister  Larkin,"  he 
admitted.  "Las'  year  de  secon'  time  I  been  sol'  out 
on  account  er  mortgages.  Hit  quite  a  th'owback  for 
me.  I  got  six  chillen  an*  a  wife  a-swingin'  on  top  er 
me,  an'  hit  no  easy  matter  to  pay  my  rent  and  all  de 
yuther  expenses." 

"Yas,  to  take  keer  er  yo'  fambly,  yo'  oblige  to  hit 
hard  an'  often,"  was  the  woman's  comment;  "but  if 
yo'  keep  up  heart,  de  Lord,  He  boun'  to  pull  you 
through." 

The  man  removed  his  hat  and  rubbed  his  head 
thoughtfully.  "I  gwine  to  stick  to  my  work  long  as  I 
c'n  move,"  he  said;  "and  I'm  gwine  to  pay  all  my 
honest  debts  from  a  nickel  up.  God  knows  I  am." 

"  Dat  right,  Brother,"  the  woman  responded  heartily, 
"an'  doan'  let  any  mo'  mortgage  be  put  on  yo'.  Dar's 
a  heap  er  people  you  an'  me  have  knowed  roun'  hyar 
have  got  in  debt  till  dey  owed  two  or  three  hundred 
dollars,  an'  den  dey  so  discourage  dey  lef  de  country. 
Dese  lenders  keep  puttin'  on  per  cent  and  per  cent,  an' 
hit  jus'  nacherly  ruins  dem  dey  lends  to." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  man,  "fifteen  per  cent  and  ten 
per  cent  and  de  principal,  too,  been  mo'  dan  a  good 
many  could  stan'  under.  Dey  done  all  dey  could,  an'  at 
las'  dey  give  up  ev'ything  but  de  shirt  on  der  back,  an' 
some  of  'em  pulfdat  off  an'  say,  'Hyar,  take  dat  too.' ' 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  103 

The  man  gathered  up  his  reins  preparing  to  drive  on. 
"We  been  havin'  pretty  tolerable  rough  weather,"  said 
the  woman. 

"We  certain  have,"  was  the  man's  response,  "an' 
dat  big  win'  las'  night  done  shook  my  ole  shack  till  I 
thought  de  house  blow  to  pieces." 

"Hit  took  off  de  las'  er  de  apple  bloom,"  the  woman 
added,  looking  off  over  the  landscape.  "  De  trees  look 
now  like  we  have  apples  to  bet  on  hyar  mont'  atter 


next." 


"What  yo'  hear  from  yo'  son  in  Texas,  Sister  Lar- 
kin  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"I  plumb  worried  about  him,"  she  replied.  "De 
las'  news  I  heard  he  got  de  terrified  fever." 

They  discussed  this  typhoid  ( ?)  fever,  and  then  the 
man  resumed  his  journey.  I  went  on  in  company  with 
the  woman.  She  called  my  attention  to  the  poor 
repair  of  the  fences  along  the  way,  and  told  about  "a  no 
fence  law"  passed  a  few  years  before  which  obliged 
every  one  to  keep  their  stock  from  running  at  large. 
Previously  the  crops  had  to  be  fenced,  and  the  cattle 
and  hogs  were  turned  loose  and  went  where  they  chose, 
and  they  "pretty  nigh  picked  up  der  own  livin'."  But 
this  wicked  and  incomprehensible  law  made  it  necessary 
to  take  care  of  them  and  feed  them,  and  that  didn't 
pay. 

In  concluding  her  remarks  the  woman  philosophized 
thus:  "Times  have  been;  times  will  be;  times  wear 


IO4     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

out  same  like  ev'ything  else.  De  ways  dey  use  to  do 
ain'  like  de  ways  dey  do  now.  Dese  days,  if  yo'  doan' 
take  keer  er  yo'  cattle  dey're  ketched  an'  yo'  have  to 
pay  three  or  fo'  dollars  to  git  'em  ag'in." 

The  black  cotton  workers  have  their  troubles,  but 
they  have  their  pleasures,  too;  and  one  of  the  chief  of 
these  pleasures  is  a  debating  society.  This  met  every 
Saturday  night  in  a  spare  room  of  a  certain  log  cabin. 
The  apartment  was  fitted  up  with  a  few  benches  and 
some  boards  laid  on  blocks,  and  it  was  pretty  sure  to 
be  packed  full.  The  discussions  were  very  earnest 
and  aroused  much  interest.  "Las'  Saturday,"  said  a 
member  of  the  society,  "de  question  was,  'Which  is  de 
bes'  beneficial,  education  or  money?'  Three  fighted 
fo'  education  and  three  fighted  fo'  money,  and  education 
whooped.  Anudder  time  we  debate,  'Which  has  de 
deepes'  effec'  on  a  person's  min',  what  he  see,  or  what 
he  hear?'  Nex'  time  de  question  gwine  be,  'Which 
done  de  mos'  fo'  de  people  —  war  or  de  ministry?" 

The  negroes  found  delight  in  exercising  their  intellects 
at  the  debating  society;  but  in  the  case  of  the  whites, 
nothing  appealed  quite  so  strongly  as  the  pleasure  of 
satiating  their  stomachs  at  a  barbecue.  "Our  barbe- 
cues are  the  biggest  thing  yet,"  I  was  told.  "We  most 
always  have  a  neighborhood  barbecue  in  August  or 
September,  and  we  have  'em  at  election  speakin's,  and 
Sunday-school  picnics.  When  I  was  a  boy  we  had  one 
on  the  Fourth  o'  July.  Everybody  was  bound  to  get 


Cotton  Patch  Life  in  Tennessee  105 

done  cultivating  his  corn  and  cotton  by  then  so  as  to 
be  ready  to  celebrate.  Yes,  you'd  drive  your  mule  till 
it  didn't  have  any  tail  to  get  done  by  the  Fourth.  The 
way  we  fix  for  a  barbecue  is  to  begin  to  get  ready  the 
day  befo'.  The  meat  is  roastin'  all  night.  We  have 
plenty  of  different  meats  —  shoat,  calf,  kid,  and  goat, 
and  we  roast  the  whole  animals.  A  trench  is  dug,  and 
oak  bark  coals  put  in.  Then  sticks  are  laid  across  for 
the  meat  to  rest  on.  Some  white  man  has  charge,  but 
the  niggers  keep  the  fires  goin'  an'  do  the  basting 
and  the  rough  work. 

"The  next  day  everybody  comes.  There's  a  detail 
to  do  the  carving,  and  we  all  step  up  and  get  what  we 
want  and  go  and  sit  down  by  some  tree  to  eat  it.  Of 
course  there's  potatoes  and  cornmeal  lightbread,  and 
pickles  and  cake,  and  there's  ice  cream,  and  there's 
pure,  genuine,  strong  coffee  that  the  old  ladies  make, 
in  abundance.  Then  there's  fried  chicken,  if  any  one 
is  fastidious  enough  to  want  it,  and  some  enterprising 
fellow  is  likely  to  bring  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  beer  and 
invite  his  special  friends  out  to  his  buggy  to  drink  it. 
But  the  best  thing  to  my  thinkin'  is  the  shoat.  A  man 
hasn't  got  any  part  in  the  resurrection  until  he's  eaten 
barbecued  shoat." 

The  narrator's  enthusiasm  was  quite  superlative, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  barbecues  for  the  whites 
and  the  debating  society  for  the  blacks  do  much  to 
brighten  an  otherwise  somewhat  sober  existence. 


106     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

NOTE.  —  To  see  something  of  rustic  Tennessee  with  ease  and  comfort 
it  is  perhaps  best  to  take  a  good-sized  town  as  a  base  where  one  can  live 
at  a  first-class  hotel.  Rations  and  housing  for  the  traveller  out  in  the 
country  have  a  somewhat  doubtful  character.  But  from  any  large  town 
one  can  go  by  train,  or  drive,  and  soon  get  into  the  cotton  country  and 
observe  the  people's  homes  and  their  work.  Interest  largely  centres  in 
the  life  one  sees,  for  the  landscape  of  the  cotton  regions  is  apt  to  be 
monotonous  and  devoid  of  charm. 


RETURNING  TO  CAMP  FROM  THE  VILLAGE 


VI 

TRAVELLING    IN    ARKANSAW 

THERE  is  no  "Arkansas"  in  the  nomenclature 
of  the  lower  Mississippi  valley — at  least  I  never 
heard  it  until  I  was  as  far  north  as  St.  Louis. 
However,  I  understand  that  the  name  "Arkansaw"  is 
not  universally  acceptable   to  the  inhabitants  of   the 
state;    and  at  one  time  the  commonwealth's  two  sena- 
tors had  such  decided  and  opposing  preferences  on  this 
subject  that  in  Congress  one  was  always  addressed  as 
"the  gentleman  from  Arkansas"  and  the  other  as  "the 
gentleman  from  Arkansaw." 

Among  the  state's  immediate  neighbors  it  is  custo- 
mary to  speak  slightingly  of  conditions  across  the  line, 
and  you  would  gather  the  impression  that  life  and  man- 
ners there  were  rather  cruder  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
great  valley.  The  outside  dwellers  take  particular 
pleasure  in  repeating  a  curious  legend  known  as  "The 
Arkansaw  Traveller."  This  tale  has  been  a  favorite 
for  more  than  half  a  century,  and,  told  properly,  it  has 
a  musical  accompaniment.  Formerly,  whenever  there 
was  a  social  gathering  that  included  a  man  with  a 
violin,  this  man  was  sure  to  be  asked  to  play  "The 

107 


io8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Arkansaw  Traveller";  and  the  listeners  took  equal 
delight  in  the  cheery  jig  of  the  music  and  in  the  medley 
of  jokes  that  went  with  it. 

"Well,"  says  the  musician,  "thar  was  an  old  feller 
in  Arkansaw  who  was  settin'  out  in  front  of  his  cabin 
on  a  stool  one  evenin'.  He  had  his  fiddle  an'  was 
playin'  away  on  this  tune."  (Plays,  but  breaks  short 
off  in  the  middle.) 

"'Bout  that  time  along  comes  a  traveller  ridin'  on 
his  horse,  an*  he  stops  an'  says,  *  Hello!' 

"  Hello  yourself,'  says  the  man. 

"'Can  you  give  me  a  night's  lodging?'  says  the 
traveller. 

"The  man  allowed  he  couldn't  nohow.  'We  got  no 
room,  stranger,'  he  says. 

"'Can't  you  make  room?'   the  traveller  asks. 

"'No,  sir,'  says  the  man.     'It  might  rain.' 

"And  what  if  it  does  rain  ?'   says  the  traveller. 

"'Why,'  the  man  says,  'thar's  only  one  dry  spot  in 
the  house,  and  me  'n'  Sal  sleeps  on  that.' 

"Then  he  begun  sawin'  away  on  his  fiddle  again." 
(Plays,  but  stops  suddenly,  as  before.) 

"Everything  was  terrible  tumbledown,  and  the 
traveller  see  how  leaky  the  roof  was,  and  he  says: 
'Why  don't  you  mend  your  roof?' 

"'When  it's  pleasant  I  don't  need  to,'  says  the  man; 
'and  when  it  rains  I  can't."  (Plays  the  tune  again  half 
way  through  and  stops.) 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  109 

"'What  makes  your  corn  so  yaller  ?'  says  the  traveller, 
lookin'  at  the  field  over  the  fence. 

"Oh,  we  plant  the  yaller  kind,  hyar,'  says  the  man." 
(Plays  the  half  tune.) 

"'How  do  your  potatoes  turn  out  this  season  ?'  asks 
the  traveller. 

'They  don't  turn  out  at  all/  says  the  man.     'We 
have  to  dig  'em/"     (Plays.) 

"'Whar  does  this  road  go  to?'  asks  the  traveller. 

"'It  don't  go  nowhar,  stranger,'  the  man  says.  'I 
been  hyar  an  all-fired  long  time,  and  that  road  has 
always  stayed  right  whar  it's  at."  (Plays.) 

"How  many  years  have  you  lived  in  this  country?' 
says  the  traveller. 

"'Do  you  see  that  mountain  over  yender?'  the  man 
says.     'Well,    that    was    thar   when    I    come    hyar." 
(Plays.) 

f '  What  are  you  playin'  that  tune  so  often  for  ?'  says 
the  stranger. 

"Only  heard  it  yisterday,'  says  the  man.  'I'm 
afraid  I'll  forgit  it.' 

'"Why  don't  you  play  the  rest  of  it?'  the  traveller 
says. 

'That  part  is  good  enough  for  me,'   says  the  man; 
'and  besides,  that's  all  I  know.' 

"Give  me  the  fiddle,'  says  the  traveller. 

c'The  man  handed  it  to  him,  and  the  stranger  played 
the  whole  tune  like  this."  (Plays.) 


no     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"Soon  as  he  begun  playin'  the  second  part  the  man 
jumped  up  and  started  to  dance,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
tune,  he  says,  'Walk  in,  stranger,  and  stay  as  long  as 
you  please.  If  it  rains  you  c'n  sleep  on  the  dry  spot. 
Zeke !'  he  says  to  his  boy,  'put  this  man's  horse  in  the 
corncrib  and  stop  the  door  with  a  haystack.  Sal,  take 
the  grubbin'  hoe  and  go  dig  some  sassafras  to  make  tea 
for  the  stranger."' 

I  found  plenty  of  people  who  could  repeat  the  jokes ; 
but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  discover  a  fiddler.  At  last, 
in  one  of  the  river  towns,  a  waiter  at  my  hotel  gave  me 
the  address  of  a  colored  man  by  the  name  of  Jack 
Hamilton  who  he  said  could  play  the  tune.  The  address 
took  me  to  a  dingy  corner  saloon  frequented  wholly  by 
negroes.  Jack  was  there,  and  so  was  his  partner  Ed 
Smith,  sitting  together  at  one  side  of  the  dark,  grimy, 
and  odorous  room.  Jack  was  black  as  a  coal.  Ed 
was  a  mulatto,  with  handsome  features  and  a  touch  of 
refinement  and  poetry  about  his  slender  figure  that 
seemed  incongruous  in  such  a  place.  He  played  his 
violin  with  great  facility  and  charm,  and  Jack's  accom- 
paniment on  the  guitar  was  spirited  and  pleasing. 
Jack  sat  stiff  and  upright  with  his  brows  twisted,  and 
a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes,  and  a  cigar  stump  cocked 
up  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  hangers- 
on  of  the  saloon  gathered .  about  to  listen  to  the 
music.  Others  continued  with  their  drinking  and 
noisy  talking.  As  to  the  melody,  it  was  a  quick  reel 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  1 1 1 

tune,  lively  and  attractive,  and  I  did  not  wonder  at 
its  popularity. 

One  of  my  first  stops  in  Arkansaw  was  at  a  sawmill 
village  in  the  woods.  The  forest  was  being  worked  up 
into  barrel  material,  and  all  day  the  place  resounded  with 
the  buzz  and  whir  of  machinery  and  the  shrill,  ravenous 
notes  of  the  saws.  It  was  a  strange  little  hamlet  that 
gathered  about  the  mill  —  a  settlement  of  forest-wreck- 
ers, devoid  of  the  least  touch  of  beauty.  The  land  was 
low  and  level,  and  puddles  and  pools  and  shallow  ponds 
abounded,  but  these  would  gradually  dry  away  as  the 
season  advanced.  The  schoolhouse  was  in  the  middle 
of  one  of  the  larger  ponds,  and  several  lines  of  boards 
were  laid  along  on  blocks  and  stumps  to  the  building. 
These  improvised  bridges  were  common  all  through  the 
village.  Everywhere  was  scattered  rubbish  from  the 
mill  —  sawdust  and  slabs  and  fragments  of  boards. 
The  houses  were  small  and  rude,  and  looked  like  tempo- 
rary shelters,  which  perhaps  they  were;  for  when  the 
mill  has  finished  its  devastation,  and  its  devouring  saws 
are  silent,  most  of  the  population  will  move  away. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  hamlet  were  several  little 
farms  carved  out  of  the  wilderness.  Just  how  to  get 
to  them  I  was  in  doubt.  I  went  through  a  village  door- 
yard,  and  climbed  the  back  fence,  crossed  a  pasture, 
climbed  another  fence,  and  found  myself  in  a  slough 
where  water  so  abounded  that  I  was  tempted  to  retreat. 
But  the  ground  was  strewn  with  a  chaotic  mass  of  brush 


H2     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  limbs  left  behind  by  the  choppers,  and  this  helped 
me  over  the  water  shallows  and  the  mud  to  a  big  corn 
field  amidst  a  scattering  of  girdled  trees.  The  field  was 
boggy,  too,  and  it  was  bristled  everywhere  with  withered 
last-year's  stalks  so  that  the  walking  was  far  from  easy. 
However,  I  continued  to  pick  a  way  to  the  farther  side, 
where  I  encountered  a  man  pulling  up  stalks  and  gather- 
ing up  branches  fallen  from  the  girdled  trees.  He  was 
piling  these  in  heaps  and  burning  them.  "I  ain't 
gittin'  along  very  well  this  year,"  he  said.  "It's  been 
a  wet  spring,  and  every  time  I  think  o'  startin'  to  work 
it  rains.  I  have  to  wear  my  gum  boots  constant." 

He  did  not  own  the  land,  and  one-third  of  the  corn 
he  raised  and  one-fourth  of  the  cotton  went  to  the  land- 
lord for  rent.  The  soil  was  difficult  to  cultivate,  it  was 
so  heavy,  and  the  crops  were  uncertain.  "The  bugs 
and  worms  git  after  the  cotton,"  he  explained.  "Last 
year  we  had  a  bug  what  we  call  the  sharpshooter.  It 
come  when  the  bolls  was  just  formin'  an'  blasted  'em  so 
they  dried  up  an'  stuck  thar  hard  an'  fast." 

The  man  showed  me  a  better  route  back  than  the  one 
by  which  I  had  come.  "  Do  you  see  that  roof  off  thar  ? " 
he  said.  "That's  on  the  main  road.  I'll  put  you  on  a 
path  and  all  you  need  do  is  to  foller  it.  The  building 
you  see  the  roof  of  pretends  to  be  a  grocery;  but  it's 
'way  outside  the  village,  and  thar's  mighty  few  goods 
on  its  shelves.  I  reckon  it's  a  blind  tiger.  I've  seen 
men  goin'  to  it,  and  I've  seen  'em  comin'  away,  and 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  113 

they  walk  a  great  deal  straighter  goin'  than  they  do 


cominV 


When  I  reached  the  main  road  I  considered  con- 
tinuing by  it  farther  out  into  the  country;  but  it  was 
too  deeply  rutted  and  watery  to  encourage  travel,  and 
I  betook  myself  instead  to  a  tramway  that  went  off 
three  miles  into  the  woods,  to  where  trees  were  being 
felled  for  the  mill.  Along  this  track  stout  little  cars 
went  back  and  forth,  two  at  a  time,  drawn  by  a  plodding 
mule.  The  day  was  quiet  and  sultry,  the  sunlight 
flickered  through  the  foliage,  the  birds  sang,  the  wood- 
peckers clattered  on  the  dead  trees,  and  once  I  saw  a 
king-snake  basking  in  the  warmth  on  an  exposed  bank. 
This  snake  was  the  most  gorgeous  monster  I  have  ever 
beheld  —  its  entire  length  of  fully  a  yard  being  ringed 
with  narrow  bands  of  brilliant  red,  black,  and  light 
yellow. 

Near  the  end  of  the  track  was  a  choppers'  settlement, 
consisting  of  a  score  of  structures  loosely  grouped  among 
the  trees.  They  had  floors  and  sides  of  boards;  but 
the  roofs  were  of  canvas,  put  up  tent  fashion.  Such 
construction  made  it  a  simple  matter  to  pull  them  to 
pieces  and  move  them  when  the  vicinity  had  been 
chopped  over.  The  moving  of  the  homes  to  be  nearer 
the  work  was  necessary  every  six  or  seven  months. 
The  woodsmen  had  their  wives  and  children  with  them; 
and  there  were  bevies  of  pigs  and  chickens  wandering 
about,  so  that  the  village  was  quite  domestic. 


H4     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  work  that  interested  me  most  was  the  herculean 
task  of  dragging  the  logs  from  where  they  had  been  felled 
to  loading-places  beside  the  track.  This  was  done  by 
ox  power,  four  yokes  to  a  team,  and  even  then  the  bigger 
logs  were  almost  beyond  the  oxen's  strength  amid  the 
mud  and  stumps  and  brush.  The  creatures  seemed 
very  willing  and  patient  and  intelligent;  yet  the  drivers 
were  always  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  oaths  and  abuse, 
and  cracking  the  long  lashes  of  their  savage  whips  with 
reports  like  pistol  shots.  Perhaps  the  string  of  beasts 
would  come  to  a  full  stop  in  some  miry  pool.  Then 
there  were  exciting  times.  The  driver  became  volcanic, 
the  whip  hissed  and  snapped,  and  the  oxen  twisted  and 
strained  and  occasionally  voiced  their  feelings  with  a 
complaining  low.  The  forward  end  of  the  log  lay  on  a 
"lizard,"  a  rude  V-shaped  sledge  about  six  feet  long, 
upturning  at  the  point,  and  made  out  of  the  fork  of 
some  large  tree.  The  woodland  not  yet  invaded  was 
full  of  giant  timber,  mostly  clean-trunked  gum  trees, 
pluming  out  above  into  the  foliage  that  formed  the  forest 
roof.  Little  was  left  standing  when  the  choppers  had 
passed  on,  save  shattered  or  dead  trees  and  ragged 
sapplings. 

It  was  nearly  sundown  when  I  returned  to  the  village 
around  the  mill.  The  only  place  to  get  anything  to  eat 
was  at  the  mill  boarding-house,  and  I  was  there  in  the 
washroom  when  the  whistle  blew  for  quitting  work. 
The  men  came  flocking  in  and  scrubbed  at  the  sink  and 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  115 

combed  their  hair.  Afterward  they  sat  or  stood  around, 
chaffing,  smoking  cigarettes,  and  spitting  at  the  stove. 
Pretty  soon  a  man  appeared  on  the  porch  with  a  hand 
bell,  swung  it  vigorously  a  few  times,  and  at  that  cheer- 
ing signal  every  one  started  for  the  dining  room.  We 
had  a  good  and  hearty  supper;  but  the  workers  in 
shirt  sleeves  and  overalls  did  not  linger  over  it.  They 
were  soon  out  engaged  in  a  game  of  ball.  The  place 
was  not  very  well  suited  to  the  sport;  for  there  were 
buildings  in  the  way,  and  there  were  stumps  and  bogs 
and  pools,  and  there  were  wandering  cows  and  horses 
which  the  ball  sometimes  encountered  with  a  resound- 
ing thump,  much  to  their  consternation.  The  ball  was 
erratic.  It  rolled  under  buildings,  or  it  flew  higher  and 
put  the  windows  in  jeopardy,  it  went  over  fences,  it 
embedded  itself  in  the  mud,  and  it  dropped  in  the 
ponds  and  had  to  be  poked  after  with  poles.  But 
these  vicissitudes  did  not  discourage  the  players,  and 
they  kept  at  the  game  till  the  full  moon  that  hung  in 
the  east  above  the  ragged  woodland  had  changed  from 
silver  to  ruddy  gold,  and  the  gloaming  had  deepened 
into  darkness. 

I  went  away  that  evening  on  the  train;  but  a  few 
hours  later  stopped  off  at  a  little  town  which  was  a 
trading  centre  in  a  prosperous  farming  country.  A 
one-armed  man  was  at  the  station  to  take  charge  of 
such  travellers  as  wanted  a  lodging-place,  and  he 
piloted  us  up  a  rough  hillslope  toward  the  town's  only 


n6     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

hotel.  Somewhere  a  calf  was  bleating,  and  we  heard 
a  whippoorwill  singing.  "That's  the  first  whippoorwill 
that's  turned  up  this  spring,"  said  the  one-armed  man. 
"I  reckon  winter's  broke." 

Our  guide  took  us  to  a  two-story  wooden  hostelry, 
"Delmonico's"  by  name,  "Strictly  Firstclass."  In  the 
dingy  office,  with  its  dim  kerosene  lamp  and  rusty  stove, 
were  about  as  many  men  as  the  apartment  would  hold, 
some  playing  cards  at  a  small  table,  some  merely  talk- 
ing, and  all  smoking.  The  landlord  was  in  a  brown 
study,  trying  to  figure  out  where  he  would  put  his  guests. 
They  were  so  numerous  that  they  could  not  have  a  bed 
apiece,  and  some  objected  to  sleeping  double.  It  was 
late,  and  I  was  ready  to  agree  to  almost  anything.  So 
he  sent  me  with  another  man  into  a  dirty  little  corner 
room,  where  we  occupied  a  bed  that  creaked  dismally 
at  the  least  provocation,  and  the  night  was  far  from 
satisfactory. 

In  the  morning,  after  breakfast,  I  looked  around  the 
premises  in  an  effort  to  discover  why  the  hotel  was 
called  "Delmonico's  —  Strictly  Firstclass."  The  yard 
was  a  gritty  slope  of  stone  and  gravel,  with  a  speckling 
of  grass  growing  on  it,  and  bestrewn  with  sticks,  tin 
cans,  old  shoes,  and  similar  litter.  Beyond  its  narrow 
confines  the  hillside  was  piled  with  telegraph  poles  and 
shaggy  cedar  fence  posts.  At  the  rear  was  a  barren 
fenced-in  space  that  served  as  a  poultry  ranch,  cow 
yard,  and  pig-pen,  and  a  depository  for  wood  piles  and 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  117 

for  rubbish  in  great  variety.  All  the  neighboring  back- 
yards were  put  to  much  the  same  uses. 

Near  the  hotel  were  ten  or  twelve  stores,  mostly  in 
narrow  one-story  brick  blocks,  and  the  place  also  had 
its  bank,  its  newspaper,  and  its  photograph  gallery,  the 
proprietor  of  which  described  his  art  as  that  of  "catch- 
ing shadows."  Business  was  dull  in  town  and  would  be 
until  fall.  From  March  to  October  the  farmers  have 
little  cash,  and  during  this  period  they  very  generally 
"go  on  tick"  at  the  stores,  and  do  not  buy  at  all  freely. 
In  carrying  these  accounts  the  stores  either  put  on  an 
extra  price  or  charge  ten  per  cent  interest.  When  the 
crops  begin  to  be  marketed  the  farmers  settle  old 
scores  and  make  more  liberal  purchases,  but  by  spring 
most  of  the  produce  has  been  turned  into  cash,  and  the 
cash  spent.  If  the  crops  fail  there  are  dubious  times 
all  around.  The  farmers  cannot  pay  what  they  owe 
nor  buy  more,  and  the  merchants  cannot  collect  or  sell, 
and  every  one  has  to  pinch  and  economize  till  nature  is 
once  more  bountiful. 

The  country  roundabout  the  town  flowed  away  in 
pleasant  hills  and  hollows  for  I  know  not  how  far.  The 
fields  were  ample  and  rich  and  well-cultivated,  and  the 
winding  streams  delightful.  My  longest  walk  was  an 
all-day  ramble  off  westward.  The  air  was  very  still 
and  mild,  and  the  soft  blue  sky  was  unsullied  by  a 
single  cloud.  I  could  hear  voices,  the  low  of  cattle, 
and  the  crowing  of  cocks  for  a  long  distance ;  and  with 


n8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

these  domestic  sounds  was  mingled  the  whistle  of  the 
quails,  the  cooing  of  turtle-doves,  the  cluck  of  black- 
birds, the  tapping  of  the  "whickers"  or  yellowhammers, 
and  the  clatter  and  songs  of  many  other  birds. 

The  highway  for  some  distance  followed  the  valley 
of  a  creek  —  an  innocent-looking  stream  with  quiet 
pools  and  rippling  rapids  ;  but  which  evidently  had  its 
spells  of  savagery,  for  the  ground  on  either  side  was 
much  torn  and  furrowed  by  floods.  All  the  space  it 
rampaged  over  was  abandoned  to  it  and  to  the  road, 
and  this  space  was  often  very  wide.  The  stream 
wandered  wilfully  to  right  and  left  with  many  a  turn, 
and  the  road  was  continually  crossing  it.  Nowhere 
was  there  any  bridge,  and  in  high  water  it  must  have 
been  impassable,  even  for  teams.  Beside  some  of  the 
fords  was  an  irregular  line  of  stepping-stones,  but  many 
of  these  stones  were  precariously  unstable  and  over- 
flown by  the  water.  Most  crossings,  however,  had  no 
aids  other  than  a  few  sticks  or  a  dead  branch  some  foot 
traveller  had  thrown  in. 

Along  the  creek  grew  great  sycamores,  "ellums,"  and 
gum  trees,  misty-green  with  tender,  new-starting  foliage. 
The  half-wild  highway  was  common  pasturage  for  cows 
and  pigs,  and  a  pleasure-ground  for  boys  and  fishermen. 
The  boys  fished,  too;  but  that  was  only  a  small  part  of 
their  fun.  The  streamside  was  to  them  enchanted  land, 
a  place  for  dreaming,  for  new  discoveries,  for  flowers  and 
birds  and  other  things  of  youthful  interest.  I  talked 


THE  FISHERMEN 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  119 

with  some  of  the  boys  —  honest-eyed  little  fellows  in 
ragged  and  patched  overalls.  They  showed  me  the- 
swimming-hole,  and  farther  up  the  creek  pointed  out 
a  pool  where  lurked  a  veteran  pike,  too  wise  to  be  caught, 
that  was  a  foot  and  a  half  long;  and  they  told  me  about 
the  suckers  and  eels  and  trout,  and  about  "the  little 
topwaters,  which  stay  near  the  surface  and  take  your 
bait." 

One  pause  that  I  made  during  the  morning  was  at  a 
cemetery  on  a  prominent  slope  by  the  roadside.  It  was 
a  large,  ragged  plot  abounding  in  stumps,  and  growing 
up  to  thin  grass,  weeds,  and  bushes.  Here  and  there 
were  straggling  flowers.  Some  graves  were  unmarked, 
and  others  had  only  rough  fragments  of  native  stone. 
Often  the  family  lots  were  fenced  in,  but  most  of  the 
fences  were  broken  and  half-fallen.  Narrow  boards 
were  the  common  fence  material;  but  there  were 
several  lots  enclosed  with  pickets  so  that  they  resembled 
miniature  hen  yards.  Frequently  the  single  graves  were 
fenced.  Some  had  fence  rails  laid  up  around  them,  one 
was  enclosed  by  great  posts  set  snug  to  each  other  like 
palisades,  and  two  or  three  were  roofed  over  with  rude 
little  shanties.  This  unkempt,  neglected  ground  of  the 
dead  looked  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  clean 
fields  about. 

Noon  came  and  I  stopped  for  dinner  at  a  log-cabin 
off  on  a  byway.  An  old  man  and  woman  and  their 
daughter  constituted  the  family.  The  man  had  been 


I2O     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

furrowing  out  a  field  for  corn  with  a  little  bull-tongue 
plough,  and  his  daughter  had  been  dropping  the  seed. 
He  complained  that  the  lower  half  of  the  field  was  as  yet 
too  wet  for  planting,  and  he  reckoned  he  would  have 
to  shoot  the  corn  into  the  mud  with  a  gun.  He  was  also 
disturbed  because  the  field  was  inclined  to  be  weedy, 
and  later  would  abound  in  "cuckle  burs." 

The  house  was  quite  primitive,  and  consisted  of  one 
room,  a  shed,  a  porch,  and  "  a  mud  and  stick  chimney." 
I  could  see  light  through  numerous  cracks  in  the  walls 
as  I  sat  at  the  table.  There  were  two  beds  in  the  room, 
and  a  meagre  supply  of  other  furniture.  Chairs  were 
not  at  all  plentiful,  and  the  man  ate  dinner  sitting  in  a 
creaking  rocker,  and  the  girl  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool. 
We  had  pokeweed  and  sour-dock  greens  with  fat  pork, 
corn-bread,  oats  boiled  with  sugar,  and  lastly  a  vinegar 
pie.  Some  of  these  things  were  not  at  all  bad,  but  my 
palate  rebelled  at  the  pie.  For  drink  we  had  both 
coffee  and  buttermilk.  The  latter  was  in  a  jar  on  the 
table,  and  the  members  of  the  family  dipped  and  drank 
several  cupfuls. 

The  woman  did  her  cooking  over  a  rickety  stove  that 
troubled  her  by  smoking  when  the  wind  was  in  the  east. 
During  the  winter,  the  fire  in  the  fireplace  was  kept 
constantly  going,  and  she  cooked  over  that.  "If  you 
have  a  good  skillet,"  she  added,  "  meat  is  better  fried  in 
the  fireplace;  and  fireplace  corn-bread  is  better,  too." 

"If  people  e't  corn-bread  right  smartly  the  way  they 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  121 

did  years  ago,  they  wouldn't  need  so  many  pills," 
affirmed  the  man. 

"Me  'n'  my  daughter  like  biscuit,"  averred  the 
woman ;  "but  flour's  so  high  I  don't  make  'em  only  once 
a  day." 

After  dinner  we  adjourned  to  the  porch,  and  the  man 
took  a  chew  and  the  woman  lit  her  pipe.  She  said  a 
good  many  women  used  snufF;  but  she  didn't  believe 
in  it  and  told  about  a  neighbor  who  recently  died.  "She 
was  a  great  hand  for  snufF,"  said  my  hostess,  "and  I'm 
satisfied  it  caused  her  death.  She  jus'  sucked  it  down 
her  windpipe  and  it  clogged  her  lungs." 

I  said  something  about  the  inconvenience  of  getting 
mail  off  on  that  byway,  but  they  responded  they  never 
had  any  mail.  Still,  they  would  have  preferred  being 
on  the  big  road,  especially  in  the  months  of  frost  and 
snow.  "We  have  a  tolerable  rough  winter  hyar," 
said  the  woman. 

"What  work  is  there  to  do  then  ?"   I  inquired. 

"We  split  oak  rails  for  our  fences  and  garden  pal- 
ings," the  man  answered,  "cut  cordwood,  and  cle'r 
land." 

They  were  early  settlers,  and  the  man  told  how  his 
folks  came  from  Illinois  about  1850.  "I  was  goin'  on 
fifteen,"  he  said,  "and  pretty  well  grown.  We  had  a 
pair  of  steers  hitched  to  a  covered  wagon.  It  was  a 
long  journey,  and  sometimes  we'd  git  the  chills  an*  have 
to  lay  up  a  while." 


122     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"We  hadn't  no  doctor's  medicine  then,"  said  the 
woman ;  "  but  we'd  git  things  out  of  the  woods  —  black 
root,  bur-vine  root,  wild  cherry,  dogwood  —  I  can't 
name  over  all  the  weeds  an'  things  my  pap  use  to  git. 
Mother'd  dry  'em  an'  fix  'em  up  to  take  when  we 
needed  'em." 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "we  use  to  do  a  heap  of  our 
own  doctorin'  thataway.  To  break  up  the  chills  we'd 
go  to  bed  and  drink  something  hot  and  cover  up  head 
and  years  to  throw  us  into  a  sweat.  Boneset  tea  was 
good,  and  so  was  dog  fennel,  and  walnut  bark.  The 
walnut  bark  we'd  boil  down  till  it  was  pitchy  and  make 
pills,  or  we'd  take  the  bark  and  slap  her  on  the  front  of 
the  wrist  where  the  nerve  is  to  draw  a  blister.  We'd 
try  lots  o'  things  like  that  for  the  chills. 

"This  was  a  wild  country  when  we  got  hyar.  There 
was  only  half  a  dozen  families  in  all  the  region,  and 
there  was  bears  and  pant'ers  a-plenty.  They'd  steal  a 
right  smart  of  sheep  and  hogs;  but  when  people  got 
settled  pretty  thick  around  they  drove  the  critters  out  or 
killed  'em.  The  last  pant'er  I  knowed  of  was  seen 
seven  years  ago.  It  run  a  nigger  four  miles  down  the 
river  road,  and  then  he  dumb  a  tree  near  a  chu'ch  house 
whar  they  was  havin'  a  meetin'.  The  people  heard  him 
hollerin'  thar  for  his  life,  and  they  come  hurryin'  out 
to  see  what  the  matter  was,  and  the  pant'er  scooted  off 
into  the  woods.  Thar  ain't  no  savage  animals  left, 
but  we  have  a  good  many  wild  turkeys  and  coons, 


MNIVERSITY 

OF 


m 


THE  WEATHER  IN  THE  ALMANAC 


Travelling  in  Arkansaw  123 

'possums  and  rabbits,  and  thar's  some  deer  run 
around  in  the  hills." 

"Well,"  remarked  the  woman,  "even  if  the  danger- 
ous critters  are  gone,  this  was  a  better  country  to  live 
in  then  than  now.  The  seasons  has  changed  and  ever'- 
thing  else.  We  had  a  heap  better  rains  then  and  none 
of  these  dry  years  when  you  can't  raise  hardly  anything. 
We  use  to  set  fires  late  in  the  fall  and  let  'em  run 
through  the  woods  to  make  feed  for  the  cattle;  but  that 
ain't  allowed  no  more,  and  the  leaves  and  bushes 
smother  out  the  grass." 

"The  cattle'd  go  to  the  range  then  in  February," 
continued  the  man,  "and  in  a  little  while  they'd  be 
plumb  slick.  We  didn't  have  to  feed  'em  more'n  three 
months,  but  now  we  have  to  feed  'em  mighty  nigh  six." 

They  were  old-fashioned  people,  pioneers  by  nature, 
and  they  could  not  adapt  themselves  to  any  but  the  ways 
of  their  youth;  yet  no  doubt  the  changes  have  nearly 
all  been  for  the  better,  and  this  part  of  Arkansaw  seemed 
to  me  to  have  genuine  pastoral  charm. 

NOTE.  — Travellers  who  wish  a  closer  contact  with  rural  Arkansas  than 
they  get  from  the  car  window  would  do  well  to  stop  at  a  hotel  in 
some  large  town  and  make  short  trips  out  into  the  country  as  the  spirit 
moves.  Some  may,  however,  prefer  to  go  at  once  to  the  lesser  places 
and  take  their  chances,  as  I  did.  The  latter  method  is  more  entertain- 
ing, but  it  has  its  drawbacks  and  would  not  suit  every  one.  The 
country  as  whole  is  too  featureless  to  attract  sightseers,  and  yet  the 
life  has  a  character  of  its  own  and  repays  acquaintance. 


VII 

LIFE    IN   THE    OZARKS 

THE  only  portion  of  the  Mississippi  valley  that 
lifts  itself  to  heights  sufficiently  lofty  to  be  called 
mountains  is  in  western  Missouri.  Here  are 
the  Ozarks.  The  name  has  a  savage  resonance  very 
suggestive  of  the  rugged  wilderness,  and  I  selected  Cedar 
Gap,  on  the  topmost  crest,  for  my  destination  with  eager 
anticipations.  But  I  did  not  find  the  romantic  region 
of  my  fancy.  There  were  no  mountains,  and  not  even 
cedars  or  a  gap.  The  gap  had  been  filled  across  for 
the  railroad,  and  the  cedars  which  formerly  "growed  in 
the  gap"  had  been  cut.  As  to  the  mountains,  they  had 
evidently  received  their  title  by  grace  of  contrast  with 
the  interminable  levels  that  environ  them.  They  are 
merely  a  vast  upheaval  of  rounded  hills,  and  nowhere  do 
they  lift  into  imposing  peaks  or  ridges.  However,  I 
found  the  country  had  an  interesting  individuality  of 
its  own,  and  the  pure  bracing  air,  and  the  puffs  of 
apple  bloom  in  the  abounding  orchards,  made  beautiful 
the  hillslopes  and  went  far  to  compensate  for  the  lack 
of  wildness. 

Cedar  Gap  Village,  where  I  made  my  home  for  the 

124 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  125 

time  being,  was  very  small  and  very  rustic.  Storekeep- 
ing  was  the  chief  industry.  There  were  no  less  than 
six  tiny  emporiums,  while  the  hamlet  did  not  contain 
above  a  score  of  dwellings.  The  one  street  was  littered 
with  tin  cans  and  papers,  and  on  its  margin  were 
occasional  woodpiles,  farm  wagons,  and  similar  en- 
cumbrances. A  scattering  of  teams  and  saddled  horses 
was  usually  hitched  to  the  wayside  posts.  One  con- 
spicuous feature  of  the  village  was  a  barn  close  to  the 
highway  that  was  pasted  over  with  gay  posters  announc- 
ing that  a  travelling  show  was  coming.  The  show  was 
to  be  in  a  tent,  "admission  twenty  cents,  children  under 
ten  years  half  price,  reserved  seats  ten  cents  extra." 
There  was  nothing  mild  and  insipid  about  it;  for  the 
posters  said,  "You'll  laugh,  you'll  yell,  you'll  scream 
with  delight  —  a  hurricane  of  fun,  a  whirlwind  of 
amusement,  a  blizzard  of  mirth  —  doors  open  at  7  — 
trouble  at  8  o'clock  sharp." 

The  hotel  was  simply  a  two-story  dwelling.  The 
front  of  its  piazza  was  even  with  the  street  walk  and 
had  a  low  picket  fence  around  the  edge  to  keep  the 
children  from  tumbling  off,  and  to  prevent  stray  cows 
or  pigs  from  walking  up  on  it.  There  was  a  gate  in 
this  fence  opposite  the  front  door,  fastened  with  a 
halter  snap;  and  the  inconvenience  of  the  fastening 
was  such  that  the  male  habitants  of  the  hotel  generally 
stepped  over  the  gate  rather  than  trouble  to  open  it. 

Most   of  the   outlying   farms   were   off  on    brushy 


126     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

byways,  and  the  farm  homes  in  themselves  and  their 
surroundings  were  marked  by  a  good  deal  of  careless 
neglect.  You  would  naturally  conclude  the  owners 
were  unthrifty  and  made  no  more  than  a  bare  living; 
but  this  I  was  told  was  not  so.  Many  of  them  had 
money  laid  away.  They  were  not  ambitious  to  have  a 
fine  house  or  make  a  show  and  outdo  the  neighbors. 
They  had  been  used  to  frugal  living  and  with  it  were 
content. 

Often  the  homes  were  linked  to  each  other  and  the 
village  by  obscure  paths  through  the  woods  and  fields, 
and  I  liked  to  follow  these  paths  across  the  "breaks," 
as  the  steep  forest  hollows  are  called.  It  was  ideal 
spring  weather.  The  sky  was  clear,  there  was  a  gentle, 
beneficent  warmth,  and  all  the  world  of  vegetation  was 
putting  off  the  winter  lethargy,  bursting  buds  and  un- 
furling leaves  and  blossoms.  Butterflies  flitted  about, 
insects  buzzed  and  frolicked,  and  lively  little  lizards  at 
my  approach  scurried  with  a  sudden  rustle  through  the 
dry  leaves  to  the  shelter  of  stump  or  fence.  May- 
apples,  violets,  and  anemones  were  in  flower,  brighten- 
ing the  undergrowth;  and  occasionally  I  came  across 
thorny  clusters  of  wild  crab  trees  crowded  with  blushing 
bloom.  Cattle  were  feeding  in  the  woodland,  and  I 
often  encountered  a  little  group  of  them  and  always 
was  within  hearing  of  the  irregular  tink-a-link  of  the 
cow-bells. 

The  chief  highway  of  the  region  passed  a  mile  or  two 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  127 

east  of  the  village.  It  was  a  main  travelled  road  from 
Arkansaw  to  the  northwest,  and  one  day  I  was  surprised 
and  delighted  to  meet  on  it  a  caravan  of  white-topped 
wagons  —  veritable  prairie  schooners,  with  two  entire 
families  and  the  dogs  and  poultry  emigrating  to  new 
homes.  How  like  a  vision  of  the  past !  The  caravan 
had  paused  at  the  top  of  a  rise  to  rest  the  horses,  and 
when  I  drew  near  the  patriarch  of  the  tribe  said, 
"Howdy,"  to  me.  "This  hyar  is  a  rough  road/'  he 
added  —  "jolt  and  thump  all  the  time;  but  I  reckon 
the  kind  o'  shake  we  been  gittin'  hyar  is  better  for  your 
liver  than  the  kind  we  been  havin'  in  the  bottoms  whar 
we  come  from.  The  children  had  got  the  color  of  a 
Yankee  punkin  with  the  malaria,  and  I  thought  it  was 
time  to  leave." 

At  a  farmhouse  where  I  stopped  later,  I  mentioned 
meeting  these  people,  and  the  woman  of  the  house  said : 
"They  were  travellers.  That's  what  we  call  'em,  and 
that's  what  they  call  themselves.  Sometimes  several 
wagons  pass  in  a  day;  but  they  ain't  so  numerous  as 
they  used  to  be.  Two  years  ago  last  fall  we  counted 
twenty-eight  o'  those  covered  wagons  that  went  by  hyar 
in  one  day.  I've  seen  six  or  seven  of  'em  all  in  a  string. 
Sometimes  the  people  have  cows  a-leadin',  and  a  calf 
in  the  wagon.  They  go  all  times  of  the  year,  but 
ginerally  when  a  man  wants  to  move  thataway  he  pulls 
out  in  the  fall  when  he  can  find  plenty  of  corn  along 
the  road  and  live  off  the  country.  A  good  many  of 


128     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

the  travellers  are  like  the  bums  on  the  railroad.  They 
understand  the  ropes  and  how  to  strike  the  ole  settlers 
for  what  things  they  need  without  spendin'  nothin'. 
They  camp  at  night  in  the  timber  and  help  themselves 
to  rails  off  your  fences  to  burn;  and  it  ain't  much 
trouble  to  git  their  horse  feed  free.  All  they  got  to  do  is 
to  slip  over  into  a  field  and  fill  a  bag  with  corn.  Then 
the  children  run  hyar  and  yender,  to  beg  a  little  milk 
and  a  little  bread  and  such  like.  People  don't  often 
take  pay.  It  don't  look  generous,  and  if  pay  is  offered 
they  say,  'Oh,  never  mind  the  money.  It's  only  a  little 
we've  given  you.  'Tain't  worth  talkin'  about/ 

"Thar  was  a  woman  traveller  told  my  ole  man 
the  other  day  that  she  and  her  family  had  been  nine 
years  in  a  wagon  and  never  had  stopped  to  settle  yet; 
and  I  allow  that  most  of  'em  are  folks  that  ain't  quite 
satisfied  nowhar.  The  good  place  is  always  just 
ahead,  you  know.  Yes,  they're  shifty  people  —  kind 
of  an  idle,  gypsy  set,  though  they're  clever  enough  and 
good  talkers.  Some  of  'em  are  well  off  and  are  on  the 
lookout  for  bargains.  They  will  buy  a  farm  or  a  piece 
of  town  property  if  it  can  be  got  cheap,  and  then  when 
they  have  a  favorable  chance  sell  it.  But  they  are  apt 
to  be  short  up  for  money.  Some  of  'em  travel  in  the 
middle  of  winter  and  the  snow  knee  deep.  They'll 
have  a  stove  in  the  wagon  with  a  fire  in  it  and  the  stove- 
pipe stuck  out  through  the  canvas. 

"  I  wa'n't  raised  in  this  country.    We  used  to  live  in 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  129 

the  upper  part  of  the  state,  and  while  we  was  thar  they 
had  a  bad  year  in  Kansas  —  no  rain  and  everything  eat 
up  by  grasshoppers.  That  set  the  travellers  all  goin' 
east,  and  every  man,  when  we  ask  him,  say  he  was  goin' 
to  his  wife's  folks  in  loway.  It  got  to  be  terribly 
amusin'  after  a  while,  and  we  made  a  regular  ole 
rhymed  song  about  it.  We  had  a  dry  season  whar 
we  was,  too.  There  wa'n't  any  rain  from  the  I3th 
of  June  till  sometime  in  October.  We  owned  about  a 
dozen  head  of  cattle  and  seven  horses,  and  we  had 
to  draw  water  for  'em  five  miles.  Our  corn  wouldn't 
ripen  the  ears,  and  we  cut  it  and  put  it  in  shocks  for 
fodder." 

As  I  rose  to  leave,  the  woman  went  to  the  door  and 
shading  her  eyes  from  the  sunlight  looked  for  some 
moments  at  a  man  passing  along  the  road  on  horse- 
back. "That's  Grandpap  Carver,  I'm  confidenced," 
she  remarked.  "Last  I  knew  he  was  sick.  This  is 
trading  day,  and  he's  got  a  basket  on  his  arm  and  is 
carryin'  his  eggs  and  butter  up  to  the  village.  Satur- 
day, some  one  from  every  family  has  to  go  to  the  village 
to  carry  the  small  truck  we  have  to  sell  and  buy  what 
is  needed.  I  usually  send  the  children.  They  walk; 
but  if  I  go  I  have  a  team.  Things  ain't  bringin'  as 
much  as  they  did  one  while.  Eggs  have  been  as  high 
as  twenty-five  cents  a  dozen,  and  butter  twenty  cents 
a  pound.  Now  we  only  get  fifteen  cents  for  butter,  or 
ten  cents  if  we  sell  to  a  neighbor.  Eggs  are  sixteen 


ijo     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

cents,  and  'tain't  likely  we'll  be  gittin'  that  much  longer. 
I've  known  'em  to  go  down  to  four  cents." 

That  it  was  a  trading  day  was  quite  apparent  when  I 
returned  to  the  village.  The  place  was  not  exactly 
lively,  but  an  unusual  number  of  people  were  hanging 
about  the  stores  and  the  sidewalks,  and  this  continued 
to  be  the  case  till  late  in  the  evening.  However,  after 
sundown,  there  was  less  trading  than  visiting  going  on  in 
the  stores,  and  if  you  looked  in  you  were  likely  to  see  by 
the  light  of  the  dim  kerosene  lamps  little  groups  of 
slouchy  men,  with  rough  clothing  and  misshapen  hats, 
talking  and  smoking  as  they  sat  or  lounged  on  counters, 
chairs,  and  boxes. 

It  was  customary  in  the  neighborhood  to  have  fre- 
quent "singings."  The  young  people  assemble  at  one 
home  or  another  for  the  purpose  nearly  every  Saturday 
night.  This  time  the  musically  inclined  gathered  at  a 
small  dwelling  next  door  to  the  hotel.  The  house  was 
packed,  and  for  two  hours  I  heard  the  participants 
singing  Gospel  Hymns  with  loud,  uncultured,  un- 
abashed voices. 

I  listened  to  more  of  the  same  kind  of  singing  the 
next  day  at  a  church  I  attended  in  a  good-sized  town  a 
few  miles  distant.  A  chorus  of  about  twenty  gathered 
around  a  cabinet  organ,  and  how  they  did  sing  !  There 
was  no  lack  of  energy.  They  stood  up  and  opened 
their  mouths  and  shouted.  Modulation  and  delicacy 
were  beyond  their  ken.  They  enjoyed  singing,  and  the 


AJ 

OF  THE  \ 

yNIVERSITY   ) 
F  / 

RN\£X 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  131 

people  in  the  pews  enjoyed  hearing  them  and  had  not  a 
suspicion  of  the  crudity.  Their  earnestness  and  vigor 
were  attractive;  but  those  hard  metallic  tones  gave 
one's  sensibilities  a  jarring,  and  I  wanted  to  stop  my 
ears  and  run. 

The  preacher,  too,  was  a  man  of  noise  rather  than  of 
refined  perceptions ;  and  he  had  something  also  of  the 
dramatic  and  sentimental  about  him.  Often  he  became 
decidedly  frenzied  and  would  thrash  around  with  his 
arms  in  red-faced,  sweating  fervor  and  have  to  mop  his 
features  with  his  handkerchief.  One  of  his  assertions 
was  that  all  the  great  business  men  of  the  country  were 
persistent  church-goers.  "There  is  Mr.  Rockefeller," 
said  he,  "who  is  worth  billions.  Nothing  would  keep 
him  from  going  to  church  short  of  putting  him  in  the 
penitentiary." 

"And  that's  just  where  he  ought  to  be,"  whispered  a 
belligerent-looking  man  in  front  of  me,  to  himself. 

The  minister  preached  what  the  Ozarks  folks  call 
"a  graveyard  sermon."  He  worked  on  the  feelings  of 
his  auditors  cruelly,  and  made  some  of  the  women  cry. 
Among  other  things  he  told  with  great  detail  the  story 
of  Abraham's  preparations  to  sacrifice  Isaac,  and 
lingered  especially  over  the  father  with  knife  in  hand 
ready  to  "cut  his  son's  throat."  It  was  barbaric  and 
horrible.  Of  course  he  made  some  good  points;  but 
as  a  whole  the  service  was  pretty  harassing,  and  I  was 
glad  when  it  ended  and  I  could  escape  into  the  mild 


Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

outer  sunshine.  Even  then  I  was  not  in  "the  Elysian 
fields,"  to  quote  a  phrase  of  the  preacher's ;  for  a  skunk 
had  visited  the  neighborhood  and  perfumed  it  most 
thoroughly,  and  the  worshippers  hastened  along  the 
board  walks  making  comments  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  sermon. 

There  were  five  churches  in  the  town,  but  some  were 
only  open  once  a  month,  and  none  oftener  than  every 
other  Sunday.  They  were  all  weaklings,  and  to  an 
outsider  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  exalting  denomina- 
tionalism  above  Christianity. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  place  as  "good-sized,"  but  that 
was  only  by  comparison  with  other  communities  in  the 
region.  The  streets,  though  wide  and  regular,  were 
nearly  overgrown  with  grass,  except  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  village  where  the  stores  were.  The  stores 
fronted  toward  a  large,  open  square  which  was  a  desert 
of  stumps;  but  young  trees  had  been  started,  and  it 
would  perhaps  sometime  be  an  oasis  of  shadowed 
lawn.  The  pigs  rambled  and  investigated  singly  and 
in  groups  about  the  municipal  thoroughfares  and  did 
the  city  scavenging.  They  were  lean,  lanky  creatures 
of  the  variety  known  as  razorbacks,  and  some  of  them, 
as  one  man  said,  "had  noses  long  and  slender  enough 
to  drink  out  of  a  jug."  The  city  dwellings  were  nearly 
all  of  the  cottage  type,  and  few  attained  to  a  second 
story.  Many  of  them  were  set  on  blocks  and  had  no 
cellars.  Trees  were  plentiful,  but  none  were  large 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  133 

enough  to  have  dignity  and  impressiveness.  The  place 
was  still  infantile,  and  many  years  would  have  to  pass 
before  it  acquired  repose  and  charm. 

I  walked  out  into  the  country  and  found  lodging  for 
a  few  days  at  a  log  house  in  a  glen  among  the  hills. 
The  soil  in  this  vicinity  was  thin  and  full  of  flinty  rocks, 
and  the  woodland  on  the  slopes  was  ragged  and  un- 
thrifty; but  in  the  bottoms  the  stones  are  laboriously 
picked  off  the  meadows  and  you  find  pleasant  tracts 
of  green.  Near  where  I  lodged  several  fine  springs 
welled  forth  unceasingly  their  crystal  fountains,  and 
the  water  formed  pretty  little  "  branches  "  that  wandered 
away  through  the  grasslands  and  cultivated  fields.  Here 
and  there  amid  the  shrubbery  that  bordered  the  rivulets 
I  saw  the  white  blossoms  of  the  wild  plums  and  haws, 
and  still  more  noticeable  were  the  frequent  red-bud 
bushes,  every  twig  loaded  with  pink  bloom.  At  a 
certain  turn  of  the  road,  a  half  mile  from  my  dwelling- 
place,  was  a  level  bit  of  grass  convenient  to  a  stream 
where  the  "travellers,  "with  their  canvas-topped  wagons, 
often  camped  for  the  night.  The  charred  coals  and 
remnants  of  their  fires,  the  husks  of  corn  left  over  from 
feeding  the  horses,  and  some  empty  tin  cans,  showed 
plainly  their  recent  presence. 

Log  houses  were  plentiful,  and  some  of  them  were 
new.  To  erect  one  was  no  great  task  or  expense.  A 
man  could  get  the  logs  ready  himself,  and  then  he  would 
invite  the  neighbors  to  the  house-raising.  The  usual 


134     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

dimensions  are  fourteen  by  sixteen  feet.  "A  pretty  good 
working  crowd  will  hoist  the  logs  into  place  and  get  roof 
and  all  done  in  a  day;  but  if  too  many  gassers  are 
there,  and  they  put  in  a  lot  of  time  tellin'  stories,  it 
may  take  another  day." 

I  noticed  that  one  local  cabin  had  no  windows.  Its 
eight  inmates  were  a  family  of  ne'er-do-wells,  who, 
rather  than  exert  themselves  to  cut  a  window  opening, 
preferred  to  light  a  lamp  when  cold  or  storms  obliged 
them  to  keep  the  door  shut.  The  children  went  bare- 
foot all  winter,  and  they  were  said  to  live  largely  on 
bread  and  molasses  and  wild  onions  ;  and  yet  they 
seemed  healthy,  and  the  smallest  girl  was  declared  to 
be,  "jis*  as  fat  as  you  ever  saw  a  little  pig  in  your 
life." 

Another  building  that  interested  me  was  a  white 
schoolhouse  on  a  hilltop.  It  was  set  well  back  in  a 
stony  yard,  with  thin  oakwoods  roundabout  ruddy 
with  the  first  hints  of  new  leafage.  There  was  no 
fence,  and  often  as  many  hogs,  sheep,  and  cows  were 
around  the  building  as  children.  The  outer  appear- 
ance of  the  schoolhouse  was  not  bad  except  that  the 
door  was  cracked  and  rickety,  and  nearly  one-fourth 
of  the  window  lights  were  broken.  It  was  set  on 
blocks,  and  sometimes  the  wandering  hogs  slept  under 
it  at  night,  or  reposed  there  in  the  heat  of  the  day  while 
the  school  was  in  session.  The  worst  of  this  was  that 
they  left  their  fleas  behind,  and  there  were  times  when 


; 


GOING  TO   MARKET 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  135 

the  teacher  and  scholars  had  distressing  experiences 
with  the  vermin. 

The  interior  was  decidedly  dingy,  with  unpainted, 
sheathed  walls,  and  the  floor  dirty  and  littered.  There 
were  two  rows  of  long  desks  with  seats  attached  to  the 
front,  and  each  seat  could  be  made  to  hold  five  or  six 
pupils  by  squeezing,  and  would  give  comfortable  accom- 
modation for  four.  The  desks  were  made  of  splintery 
hemlock  boards,  and  were  much  marked  with  chalk, 
pencils,  and  ink  by  idling  occupants.  One  or  two  were 
gone  entirely  to  smash  and  the  fragments  lay  in  a  rear 
corner.  A  big  rusty  stove,  with  the  name  "Solid  Com- 
fort" in  raised  letters  on  either  side,  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  a  wobbly  stovepipe  connected  it  with 
the  chimney.  The  stove  had  seen  hard  times.  One 
leg  was  broken  and  had  been  pieced  out  with  half  a 
brick,  and  a  stout  wire  encircled  the  entire  stove  just 
under  the  rim  to  keep  the  sides  from  caving  out. 

For  the  teacher  there  was  a  rude  little  table,  ham- 
mered together  by  some  farmer.  No  chair  accom- 
panied it,  though  one  had  originally  been  supplied  by 
the  school  authorities;  but  it  had  gradually  become 
very  decrepit.  In  its  last  days  it  had  lost  its  back,  and 
to  supply  this  deficiency  the  teacher  when  she  used  it 
would  place  it  against  the  wall.  After  it  finally  went 
to  entire  ruin,  the  teacher  "either  fetched  one  herself  or 
did  without." 

It  was  not  thought  worth  while  to  put  a  lock  on  the 


136     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

door,  because  it  would  be  soon  broken;  for  the  boys 
liked  to  go  in  there  evenings  and  Sundays  "to  tear 
around."  Often  tramps  took  possession  for  the  night, 
built  a  fire  in  the  stove,  and  made  themselves  at  home. 
School  began  some  time  in  August  and  kept  continu- 
ously for  twenty-four  weeks.  The  first  half  of  the  period 
attendance  was  good ;  but  the  long  term  became  weari- 
some and  many  dropped  out  later.  The  school  might 
start  with  thirty  or  forty  pupils  and  end  with  ten. 

One  evening  we  had  a  long  talk  about  schools  at  my 
boarding-place.  I  had  sat  down  in  the  best  room. 
The  sagging  uneven  floor  was  half  covered  by  a  rag 
carpet,  and  the  walls  were  pasted  over  with  newspapers. 
In  one  corner  was  a  bed  and  at  its  foot  was  a  cot  bed. 
In  all  the  houses  of  the  region  beds  were  a  conspicuous 
article  of  furniture.  Few  rooms  were  without  at  least 
one,  usually  from  necessity,  but  in  part  from  force  of 
habit.  People  of  means  put  a  bed  in  the  parlor  just 
as  their  neighbors  did,  even  when  the  house  was  large 
and  it  could  easily  have  been  spared. 

The  weather  was  chilly,  and  Mr.  Doten,  the  man  of 
the  house,  brought  in  some  coals  on  a  shovel  from  the 
kitchen  stove  and  put  them  in  the  fireplace.  Then  he 
knelt  down  on  the  rough  hearth,  laid  on  some  kind- 
lings, and  encouraged  a  blaze  by  wafting  his  cap.  The 
fire  soon  flamed  up  brightly  and  began  to  eat  away  at 
the  backlog,  and  the  whole  room  was  lit  up  with  its 
fitful  glow.  "I  tell  you  this  fire  keeps  me  busy  in  the 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  137 

winter,"  said  the  man.     "We  use  a  two-horse  load  of 
wood  a  week.      But  that  wood  warms  a  fellow  twice— 
once  outdoors  cutting  it  up  and  again  in  here  burning." 

He  had  seated  himself  in  a  rocking-chair  to  enjoy 
the  heat  and  smoke  his  pipe.  The  man's  grandson,  a 
little  boy  in  overalls  and  cowhide  boots,  had  lounged 
down  on  the  convenient  cot  bed  and  was  watching  the 
flames.  The  man  wore  boots,  too.  This  was  partly 
because  the  soil  of  the  country  was  full  of  flints,  that  were 
very  destructive  to  light  footwear,  and  partly  on  account 
of  ticks.  "  You're  bound  to  get  acquainted  with  them 
ticks  in  summer,"  explained  the  man;  "and  there's 
a  little  kind  of  a  bug  we  call  jiggers  that's  worse  still." 

Presently  Mrs.  Doten  and  her  daughter  came  in. 
The  family  had  moved  from  Iowa  a  few  years  before, 
because,  as  Mrs.  Doten  said,  "It  didn't  agree  with  our 
health  there.  When  you  woke  up  in  the  morning 
you  were  tired  and  had  a  bitter  taste  in  your  mouth. 
Besides,  wood  was  scarce.  That's  what  broke  me  of 
roastin'  my  own  coffee.  I  only  made  a  fire  when  I 
had  to." 

The  daughter  was  a  school-teacher.  "We  tried  to 
get  Jenny  the  school  here,"  said  Mrs.  Doten,  "when 
we  first  come;  but  they  didn't  think  she  was  strong 
enough,  and  they  jis'  got  somebody  no  account  to  beat 
and  thump,  and  who  didn't  learn  the  scholars  a  thing. 
You  see  each  district  has  three  directors  to  manage  the 
schools,  and  some  of  'em  don't  know  beans.  There's 


ij 8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

school  directors  that  can't  read  or  write;  and  often 
they'll  never  visit  the  school  the  whole  year  through." 

"Where  I  was  last  year,"  said  Jenny,  "I  had  to  wait 
quite  a  while  for  my  pay  because  the  president  of  the 
directors  was  in  jail  for  gambling." 

"How  much  are  teachers  paid?"    I  asked. 

"From  twenty-five  to  forty  dollars  a  month,"  was 
Jenny's  reply;  "and  out  of  that  comes  our  expense  for 
board,  sometimes  only  five  dollars  a  month,  sometimes 
as  much  as  seven  and  a  half.  One  thing  a  teacher  is 
expected  to  do  is  to  go  once  during  the  year  to  each  home 
that  sends  children  and  stay  over  night.  You  have  to 
do  it  or  the  people  feel  slighted  and  think  you  are  proud. 
You  get  into  some  pretty  poor  houses.  I've  been  where 
the  snow  fell  through  holes  in  the  roof  on  to  the  table 
while  we  were  eating;  and  I've  been  where  the  whole 
family  slept  in  one  room. 

"Everyone  judges  your  work  at  school  by  the  order 
you  keep,  whether  the  children  learn  anything  or  not. 
I  almost  lost  my  reputation  one  year  through  a  girl 
who  wouldn't  mind;  and  if  I  tried  to  use  force  she 
would  scratch  and  fight.  Finally  the  directors  came 
in  and  turned  her  out,  and  then  the  rest  of  the  children 
in  that  family  left,  too. 

"The  studies  we  make  the  most  of  are  spelling  and 
arithmetic.  The  people  go  wild  about  those.  We 
always  used  to  have  a  head  and  a  foot  to  the  spelling 
class,  and  whoever  stood  at  the  head  when  the  day 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  139 

ended  received  a  credit  and  began  at  the  foot  the  next 
day.  On  the  last  day  of  the  term  the  scholar  who  had~ 
the  most  headmarks  was  given  a  prize.  But  that  cus- 
tom is  gradually  going  out.  There's  one  girl  in  this 
district  has  studied  her  spelling  book  so  much  she  spells 
page  after  page  without  having  a  word  pronounced  for 
her;  yet  she's  not  much  in  anything  else.  We  often 
have  spelling-downs  in  the  school,  and  you  need  only 
ask,  'Who  wants  to  choose  up?  —  Who  wants  to  be 
captain?'  -to  have  half  a  dozen  calling  out,  'Me/ 
They  like  to  cipher  down,  too.  That's  done  on  nearly 
the  same  plan  as  the  spelling  contests.  Sides  are 
chosen,  and  the  last  one  in  each  company  goes  to  the 
board,  the  teacher  gives  an  example,  and  they  figure  as 
fast  as  they  can.  The  one  that  gets  done  first  beats  and 
the  other  is  out  of  the  game.  The  next  child  from  the 
side  of  the  beaten  one  steps  to  the  board  and  a  second 
example  is  given.  So  the  contest  goes  on  until  all  on 
one  side  are  beaten. 

"Some  time  during  the  term  we  have  a  school  enter- 
tainment. Perhaps  it  will  be  a  box  supper,  and  each 
lady  will  bring  a  box  filled  with  a  nice  lunch.  Her 
name  is  inside,  and  all  the  boxes  are  put  together,  and 
then  each  man  buys  a  box  for  fifteen  cents.  When 
he  looks  inside  he  may  trade  boxes  with  some  other 


man." 


"That's  not  because  he  don't  like  the  grub,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Doten;  "but  he'd  rather  have  some  other 


140     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

lady.  You  see  he  has  to  take  the  one  whose  name  is  in 
his  box  and  eat  the  lunch  with  her." 

"I  like  the  pie  suppers  best,"  said  Mrs.  Doten. 
"  Each  lady  brings  a  pie  with  her  name  on  the  bottom, 
and  the  pies  are  sold  for  ten  cents  apiece.  There's 
all  kinds  —  apple,  peach,  blackberry,  sorrel,  pumpkin, 
sweet  potato,  and  I  don't  know  what." 

"The  proceeds  are  used  for  buying  a  dictionary  or 
books  for  the  school  library,"  continued  the  teacher, 
"or  a  new  blackboard  or  an  organ.  Besides  the  eat- 
ing, there's  a  short  programme.  A  stage  has  been  built 
at  one  end  of  the  schoolroom  on  as  small  a  plan  as 
possible,  and  the  scholars  get  up  there  and  have  their 
recitations,  singing,  and  dialogues.  The  room  is  sure 
to  be  crowded,  all  the  seats  full  and  some  persons 
standing.  A,  good  many  come  early  —  even  an  hour 
beforehand — to  make  sure  of  a  good  place  to  sit." 

"They  have  another  great  time  last  day  of  school," 
remarked  Mr.  Doten. 

"Yes,"  said  the  teacher,  "and  the  children  come  in 
the  morning  dressed  in  their  best.  Sometimes  we  have 
a  big  dinner  at  the  schoolhouse.  The  patrons  bring  all 
sorts  of  good  things  to  eat,  and  after  dinner,  perhaps 
the  children  spell  down,  and  there's  speeches.  The 
pupils  make  the  teacher  a  present  of  an  inkstand, 
album,  card  tray,  or  something  of  the  sort;  and  she  has 
to  supply  a  treat  of  candy  for  them.  I  usually  get  a 
pailful  —  twenty-eight  pounds.  Then  I  have  to  put 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  141 

it  up  in  bags  or  boxes,  a  half  pound  for  each  scholar, 
and  what  is  left  is  passed  around  among  the  visitors. 
If  you  didn't  buy  that  candy  the  children'd  feel  terribly 
insulted,  and  think  you  were  the  stingiest  old  thing 
that  ever  was." 

"We  have  the  biggest  crowd  at  our  schoolhouse  when 
there's  a  spelling-down  between  our  scholars  and  those 
of  some  other  district,"  said  Mrs.  Doten. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Mr.  Doten  commented. 
"I've  seen  it  packed  fullest  when  we  was  havin'  pro- 
tracted meetin's." 

It  seemed  that  these  meetings  were  revivals  of  re- 
ligion, and  there  had  been  three  series  the  previous 
winter,  each  under  a  different  minister,  and  each  con- 
tinued from  evening  to  evening  for  about  two  weeks. 
"People  come  for  miles,"  said  Mr.  Doten,  "and  the 
warmer  the  meetin's  get  the  more  they  come.  A  good 
many  are  there  jis'  to  see  the  fun,  same  as  they'd  go  to 
a  dog  fight  or  a  horse  race.  The  minister  does  all  he 
can  to  have  an  excitement,  and  when  he  sees  people's 
feelin's  are  all  worked  up  he  begins  to  clap  his  hands 
and  shout,  'Bless  God!  Bless  God!'  over  and  over 
again." 

"You  never  saw  anything  like  it,"  added  the  teacher. 
"The  people  will  laugh  and  cry  and  scream  and  holler, 
and  it's  as  good  as  a  circus.  They  walk  around  and 
are  hystericky  as  can  be.  I  remember  how  one  old 
man  last  winter  wagged  his  head  and  snivelled  and 


142     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

squealed  and  looked  real  idiotic.  If  he  had  been  my 
father  and  cut  up  like  that  I'd  have  slunk  off  home." 

"It's  what  I  call  a  *  distracted'  meetin',"  said  Mrs. 
Doten,  "they  make  such  a  big  fuss.  You  can't  tell 
what  they  say;  but  they're  havin'  what  they  speak 
of  as  'a  good  time.'  After  the  service  the  minister 
calls  for  'seekers'  or  'mourners'  to  come  up  in  front; 
and  friends  of  the  unconverted  will  go  about  in  the 
audience  and  talk  to  those  they  think  ought  to  re- 
spond to  the  minister's  call;  and  if  they  have  a  strong 
will  they'll  get  those  to  the  mourners'  bench  that  didn't 
want  to  be  there  at  all.  Then  one  o'  the  local  men  will 
get  down  to  pray  and  say,  'We  ax  thee,  Lord,  to  reveal 
thyself  to  these  poor  sinners,'  and  such  things,  and 
some  of  the  seekers  will  stand  up  and  make  a  profession 
and  say  a  few  words.  The  persons  that  get  religion  at 
such  times  are  mostly  women  and  girls,  and  perhaps  a 
few  young  boys  not  over  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old, 
and  they  generally  backslide  and  are  ready  for  the 
next  big  meetin'." 

"Well,  the  preachers  make  a  good  thing  out  of  it," 
said  Mr.  Doten.  "  I  know  the  Methodist  minister  that 
come  here  was  paid  eighteen  dollars  in  money  and  given 
twenty-five  dollars'  worth  of  provisions.  The  provisions 
and  part  of  the  cash  was  begged  for  him  around  at  the 
houses,  and  the  rest  of  the  money  was  got  in  the  two 
Sunday  collections." 

"I  didn't  like  him,"  was  the  teacher's  comment. 


BESIDE  THE  KITCHEN  FIRE 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  143 

"That's  because  he  claimed  the  girls  would  go  to 
hell  if  they  had  beaus  to  and  from  service,"  responded 
Mr.  Doten.  "He  said  they  thought  so  much  about 
the  fellers  that  was  goin'  to  take  'em  home  they  didn't 
listen  to  the  sermon." 

"These  meetings  pretty  nearly  ruin  the  schoolhouse," 
said  the  teacher.  "We  had  a  prayer-meeting  where  I 
taught  last  year,  and  the  room  was  in  such  a  condition 
the  next  morning  I  sent  the  smaller  children  home, 
and  then  I  had  the  older  ones  get  water  and  we  scrubbed 
out.  There  was  tobacco  juice  all  over  the  floor  and  on 
the  desks  and  stove  and  in  the  water  pail." 

"Yes,"  corroborated  Mrs.  Doten,  "they  spit  till  I 
wish  I  had  an  umbrella.  I  have  to  gather  up  my 
skirts,  for  there'll  be  great  pools,  and  you  need  a  boat 
to  get  out." 

"In  the  town  churches  there's  a  fine  for  chewing 
and  spitting  on  the  floor,"  said  Mr.  Doten. 

"I  like  to  chew  gum,"  remarked  the  boy,  who  was 
now  sitting  on  a  stool  near  the  fire,  knife  in  hand, 
making  a  corncob  pipe  for  his  "grandpaw";  "but  our 
teacher  won't  let  us  chew  it  in  school  time.  We  chew 
at  recess,  and  when  we  come  in  we  stick  it  on  the  stop- 
pers of  our  ink  bottles.  If  we  keep  it  in  our  mouths 
she  makes  us  throw  it  in  the  stove." 

"Some  of  the  young  men  that  chew  gum  put  theirs, 
when  not  in  use,  behind  one  of  their  ears,"  observed 
the  teacher. 


144     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"But  for  downright  greenness,"  said  Mrs.  Doten, 
"you  ought  to  see  the  young  fellers  and  their  sweet- 
hearts that  come  from  back  in  the  country  at  the  Fourth 
of  July  picnic  in  the  town.  They  walk  swinging  along 
hold  of  hands  like  little  children.  That's  their  idea  of 
courting.  Right  around  here  the  usual  way  for  a  young 
man  to  court  is  to  call  on  his  girl  Sunday  evening  and 
sit  by  the  fire  with  her  after  the  old  folks  have  gone  to 
bed.  They  are  great  hands,  too,  for  corresponding 
even  when  they  live  not  more  than  three  or  four  miles 
apart.  Often  they  go  for  a  buggy  ride  on  Sunday  after- 
noon. Some  think  it  ain't  quite  proper  for  lovers  to 
ride  in  the  evening.  The  people  here  are  always  sus- 
picious of  what  they're  not  used  to,  and  suspicion  is  a 
bad  sort  of  coin  for  anybody.  One  of  our  best  neigh- 
bors is  a  woman  that  a  good  many  call  a  foreignor. 
'She  don't  talk  like  other  folks,'  they  say;  but  she's 
jis'  a  broad  Yankee  from  Boston.  She's  real  good  if 
there's  sickness,  and  is  frequently  sent  for.  When  she 
gets  to  the  sickroom  she  takes  charge  at  once  and  ain't 
at  all  backward  about  tellin'  what  ought  to  be  done. 
I  went  with  her  once.  A  girl  was  sick,  and  soon  as  we 
were  in  the  house  she  said,  '  Goodness  alive !  we've 
got  to  clean  up  some  of  this  dirt,  or  the  girl  will  die. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  her.' 

"So  we  begun  cleanin',  and  at  the  same  time  she 
sent  home  most  of  the  relatives.  They  all  come  if 
any  one  is  seriously  sick,  the  whole  outfit  of  'em, 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  145 

perhaps  twenty  or  thirty,  and  sit  around  in  the 
way. 

"Two  years  ago  the  Massachusetts  woman's  mother 
who  had  been  living  with  her  died,  and  our  people  never 
see  such  a  funeral.  Talkin'  afterward  they  said,  'Why, 
she  never  made  a  bit  of  fuss.  I  don't  believe  she  cared 
a  cent;  and  besides,  she  dressed  up  like  she  was  goin' 
to  a  fine  dinner/ 

"They  thought  she  showed  disrespect.  The  habit 
here  is  to  go  to  funerals  in  your  work  clothes.  Often 
the  men  wear  their  overalls.  It's  the  same  at  the 
country  churches  —  the  older  men  have  on  overalls  and 
the  brown  duck  coats  they  work  in,  and  the  married 
women  all  wear  sunbonnets.  The  young  men  dress 
up  some,  but  in  warm  weather  they'll  go  to  meetin' 
without  coat  or  vest." 

"Well,"  remarked  Mr.  Doten,  "I've  seen  the  preacher 
take  off  his  coat  in  the  middle  of  his  sermon  when  he 
got  warm." 

"The  minister  has  a  good  long  sermon  at  the  fu- 
nerals," Mrs.  Doten  resumed,  "often  three-fourths  of 
an  hour,  and  I've  heard  'em  go  on  for  twice  that  time. 
The  near  relatives  think  they  got  to  show  how  sorrowful 
they  feel,  and  there's  lots  of  rippin'  around,  cryin',  and 
screamin';  and  they  tell  how  bad  they've  been  to  the 
dead  and  how  they  wish  they'd  been  better;  and  the 
preacher  helps  that  sort  o'  thing  along  all  he  can.  If 
there's  anything  especially  distressing  or  touching  about 


146     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

the  person's  sickness  and  death  he's  sure  to  bring  that 
in;  for  it's  supposed  to  be  a  credit  to  him  —  shows  his 
power  —  the  more  screechin'  there  is.  I  used  to  have 
a  good  deal  of  sympathy  for  the  near  relatives  of  the 
deceased,  they  seemed  to  be  so  overcome  at  the  funerals; 
but  their  screechin'  is  jis'  the  fashion,  and  now  it  don't 
affect  me  no  more  than  to  hear  the  piggy  squealing  out 
here. 

"At  one  funeral  last  summer  a  man  had  lost  his  wife, 
and  when  time  come  for  the  service  he  felt  so  bad  he 
didn't  want  to  do  anything  but  wander  around  outside, 
and  'twas  all  we  could  do  to  get  him  into  the  house. 
But  he  was  married  again  in  six  months.  He  could  have 
kept  a  loaf  of  bread  over  of  his  first  wife's  baking  for 
his  second  wife's  eating  if  he'd  had  a  real  good  place  to 
put  it.  They  always  remark  and  joke  about  a  man  that 
don't  wait  a  year  after  his  wife's  death." 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  school-teacher,  "that  a  man 
misses  his  wife  here  in  the  Ozarks  more  than  anywhere 
else  in  the  United  States.  She  does  the  housekeeping 
and  she  does  a  good  deal  of  field  work,  too.  I  know  I've 
been  spending  half  my  time  lately  dropping  corn  and 
helping  plant  potatoes.  The  women  do  the  milking, 
and  they  go  out  sprouting  with  axe  and  mattock  in  the 
fields  and  pastures,  and  they  pick  up  loose  stones  off 
the  grassland,  and  do  all  sorts  of  jobs.  Then  there's 
no  conveniences  around  the  houses.  It's  an  old  say- 
ing, if  a  woman  marries  a  Missouri  man  she'll  have  to 


MAKING  A  HEN-COOP 


THE  **\ 

AVER'S/TV "I 
j 

h^ 


Life  in  the  Ozarks  147 

carry  water  half  a  mile  up  hill  all  her  life,  and  that's 
about  so.  Our  spring  isn't  more  than  three  rods  from 
the  house,  but  not  many  families  are  so  lucky." 

The  little  clock  soberly  ticking  on  the  fireplace 
mantel  showed  that  we  were  sitting  up  late  for  dwellers 
in  that  region,  their  habit  being  to  retire  early,  and 
likewise  to  get  up  early.  The  boy  had  long  ago  left 
his  knife  and  the  cob  pipe  he  was  making  and  was 
asleep  on  the  cot  bed;  and  now  I  was  shown  to  my 
apartment,  and  soon  the  house  was  quiet. 

NOTE.  — The  Ozarks  as  mountains  have  no  attractions  worth  mention- 
ing, but  as  big,  rolling,  half- wild  hills  they  are  very  handsome.  Seymour 
is  an  excellent  stopping-place  and  is  near  the  crest  of  the  ridges.  The 
landscape  environing  the  town  is  commonplace,  but  the  tumbled  waves  of 
upland  are  within  easy  driving  distance,  and  in  what  you  see  there,  and 
in  your  contact  with  the  inhabitants,,  you  will  find  much  that  is  decidedly 
enjoyable. 


VIII 

AT  THE   MEETING   OF  THE   WATERS 

WHERE  the  great  river  from  the  east  joins  the 
great  river  from  the  north  stands  Cairo, 
though  not  exactly  in  the  apex  of  late  years ; 
for  the  Mississippi  has  moved  away  somewhat  and  left 
the  town  a  little  up-stream  on  the  Ohio.  The  place  is 
probably  not  charming  at  any  season,  and  in  the  spring 
of  the  year,  when  I  was  there,  it  was  partially  flooded 
and  appeared  decidedly  dismal.  Dinginess  and  dirt 
were  universal,  saloons  abounded,  parading  their  doubt- 
ful friendliness  under  such  names  as  "My  Brother's 
Place"  and  "Uncle  Joe's  Glad  Hand,"  and  the  rail- 
roads monopolized  the  water  front,  where  their  engines 
were  constantly  hissing  and  hooting  and  banging  about, 
filling  the  air  with  gas,  soot,  and  cinders  day  and  night. 
To  offset  all  this  the  river  itself  with  its  traffic  and 
its  bankside  workers  and  loiterers  is  unfailingly  pic- 
turesque and  interesting.  There  is  no  end  of  steamers 
and  scows,  rafts  and  tugs,  houseboats  and  skiffs, 
draymen,  roustabouts,  and  loafers.  Here  are  life  and 
variety  and  excitement,  and  the  townsfolk  of  the  hum- 
bler sort  find  genuine  pleasure  in  lounging  along 

148 


PROSPECTS  OF  A  BLACKBIRD  PIE 


OF  THE 

yNIVERSlTY   J 

OF 


At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  149 

shore  to  fish  or  to  lose  themselves  in  drowsy  contem- 
plation while  they  watch  the  changing  scene.  The 
waterside  people  are  always  ready  to  talk  and  to  retail 
their  opinions  and  reminiscences,  and  I  had  many  an 
entertaining  chat  with  them.  One  of  my  chance  ac- 
quaintances was  an  old  negro  accompanied  by  a  little 
boy,  and  both  of  them  fishing. 

"Some  men  up  and  down  de  river  make  a  Hvin' 
fishin',"  said  he;  "but  I  cain't.  I  have  to  work.  I 
reckoned  though  I'd  put  in  a  little  while  hyar  dis  atter- 
noon.  Fish  are  jes'  natchul  good  eatin'  dis  time  er 
year.  My  wife  does  most  er  de  fishin'.  She  goes  idle 
times  when  she  ain't  washin'  or  ironin'.  Yisterday 
she  done  got  a  fish  on  her  line  with  a  haid  bigger'n  dis 
boy's  haid.  De  fish  so  big  an'  strong  she  say  it  was 
like  pullin'  on  a  log  to  git  it  up  out  er  water,  an'  when 
she  see  it  she  was  dat  skeered  she  didn't  dast  to  haul  it 
to  shore.  She  say  she  ain'  gwine  fool  wid  no  such  fish, 
an'  she  was  mighty  glad  when  it  git  off  de  hook. 

"Dat  make  me  think  'bout  de  time  when  I  fust  come 
to  Illinois.  I  was  bred  and  born  and  raised  up  right 
in  Richmond.  We  had  all  kinds  er  fish  dar.  But  I 
settled  in  a  town  eighteen  or  twenty  miles  back  in  de 
country  hyar,  an'  one  day  de  market  man  got  some 
salt  water  fish  sent  him.  I  was  on  de  street  soon  atter 
dey  arrive,  an'  I  see  a  big  crowd  aroun'  de  market,  an* 
I  run  to  fin'  out  what  de  matter.  I  reckoned  some- 
body done  got  killed.  But  de  people  was  jes'  a-lookin' 


150     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

at  one  er  dese  hyar  flounders.  Dey  am'  never  heard 
tell  er  nothin'  like  dat  befo'  -  -  a  fish  wid  both  his  eyes 
on  one  side.  De  man  I  worked  for  was  dar,  and  when 
he  see  I  know  de  fish  he  say,  'Is  he  good  to  eat?' 
I  tol'  him  dat  he  shore  was,  an'  he  bought  him,  an'  he 
give  my  ole  lady  half  a  dollar  to  fry  dat  fish.  When 
it  was  serve  on  de  table,  suh,  seem  like  he  crazy  it  taste 
so  good.  He  didn't  lose  no  time  sendin'  for  mo',  an' 
atter  dat  he  had  flounders  as  often  as  he  could  git  'em." 

The  fisherman  paused  while  he  pulled  up  his  line 
and  examined  his  bait.  "De  fish  doan'  seem  to  be 
bitin'  to-day,"  he  commented;  "and  yit  ole  man  Daw- 
son  nabbed  some  big  catfish  right  hyar  early  in  de 
week.  I'm  sati'fied  dey  are  mo'  whar  dose  come  from, 
an'  dat  what  put  me  in  de  notion  er  fishin'." 

Down  at  the  lower  end  of  the  town  near  a  great 
elevator  that  loomed  up  on  the  verge  of  the  river,  I 
made  friends  with  some  people  on  a  houseboat.  Their 
little  vessel  was  hitched  to  the  shore,  and  a  plank  served 
for  passage  from  land  to  deck.  The  boat  had  two 
rooms,  and  was  occupied  by  two  families,  including 
several  children,  the  youngest  a  tot  that  could  just 
walk,  the  oldest  a  boy  of  ten.  The  little  folks  all 
delighted  in  the  river.  It  afforded  them  endless 
amusement.  They  threw  in  sticks  and  stones,  sailed 
toy  boats  of  their  own  manufacture,  they  fished  and 
splashed  and  watched  the  coming  and  going  of  the 
river  craft,  and  the  older  youngsters  went  out  rowing 


At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  151 

in  the  skiffs.  Their  life  looked  adventurous,  and  it 
was  a  wonder  they  did  not  come  to  grief  a  dozen  times 
a  day.  But  I  could  learn  of  only  one  serious  mishap. 
A  week  or  two  previous  the  boy  of  ten  had  fallen  off 
the  guards;  "and  I  just  screamed,"  his  mother  ex- 
plained to  me.  "I  couldn't  think,  and  I  didn't  do  a 
thing  to  help;  but  my  husband  was  near  by  and  he 
jumped  in  and  pulled  the  boy  out,  and  that  boy  never 
even  caught  a  cold  because  of  his  ducking." 

Among  the  rest  of  the  inmates  of  this  boat  was  a 
colored  lad  named  Billy  who  did  odd  jobs  for  his 
board.  I  got  him  to  row  me  down  to  the  mouth  of  the 
river.  He  was  delighted  to  go  and  chuckled  as  he 
rowed  away,  for  he  had  gotten  rid  of  washing  the 
dishes.  He  was  a  boy  with  a  history,  though  I  imagine 
his  relation  of  it  was  eked  out  with  fiction.  His  left 
forefinger  was  missing,  and  he  said  he  had  a  bullet  in 
his  shoulder  that  made  his  arm  ache  in  dull  weather. 
Both  the  suffering  shoulder  and  the  crippled  hand  were 
the  result  of  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration.  His  finger 
was  shot  off  with  a  toy  cannon ;  but  he  got  patched  up 
and  in  an  hour  or  so  joined  his  comrades;  "and  I  was 
soon  monkeying  around  wid  de  boys,"  said  he,  "same 
as  befo'.  One  of  'em  had  a  little  popgun.  It  wa'n't 
loaded,  and  we  was  havin'  a  jolly  time  pointing  it 
at  each  other  when  all  of  a  sudden  it  went  off  and 
hit  me  in  de  shoulder.  I  couldn't  use  my  arm  for 
a  month;  and  yit  de  gals  treated  me  so  well  all  dat 


152     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

month  my  arm  was  in  a  sling  I  had  de  best  time  of  my 
life. 

"Later  I  went  on  to  a  United  States  training-ship  at 
New  Orleans;  but  dey  abuse  me  on  dat  ship  and  I 
runned  away.  I  was  green  enough  to  keep  my  uni- 
form on  and  wear  all  my  pistols  and  knives.  So  dey 
got  a  hold  er  me  in  Memphis  an*  took  me  back;  but  I 
run  away  again,  an*  dey'll  never  ketch  me  now." 

Between  Cairo  and  the  Mississippi  is  a  half  mile  of 
lowland  overgrown  with  willows  and  cottonwoods. 
The  water  was  up  and  this  low  ground  was  flooded, 
yet  not  so  deep  but  that  one  could  see  the  tops  of  the 
withered  last  year's  grasses  and  tall  weeds.  On  these 
bottoms  bordering  the  Ohio  lived  several  amphibious 
families,  evidently  prepared  for  all  emergencies.  Ordi- 
narily they  were  land  dwellers;  but  the  foundation  on 
which  they  erected  their  tents  and  shanties  was  a  raft 
or  scow;  and  though  this  rested  on  the  ground  most  of 
the  year,  it  was  set  afloat  when  the  water  encroached. 
One  man,  however,  had  sought  a  different  means  of 
escaping  the  flood.  He  had  perched  his  hut  well  up 
among  the  branches  of  two  great  cottonwoods.  It  was 
safely  above  the  reach  of  the  freshets,  and  a  dog  was 
on  the  porch  standing  guard  in  his  master's  absence. 
Near  by  were  the  rest  of  the  home  belongings  heaped  on 
rafts  and  platforms.  The  largest  raft  served  also  as  a 
refuge  for  the  hens,  which  were  picking  about  or  roost- 
ing apparently  quite  content.  "They  better  be  careful 


At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  153 

and  not  tumble  in,"  said  my  oarsman.  "If  a  chicken's 
feathers  git  wet  he's  gone.  He  cain't  set  up  on  de  water 
like  a  goose." 

Not  far  away  was  a  neighbor's  raft  on  which  was  a 
home  and  two  cows  and  a  calf.  The  creatures  had  little 
room  to  move  about,  yet  there  they  would  stay  till  the 
water  receded. 

As  we  rowed  leisurely  along  several  steamers  went 
down  or  up  the  river,  most  of  them  railroad  ferry-boats 
loaded  with  freight  cars  going  to  or  coming  from  a 
station  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Mississippi.  In  their 
wake  the  great  waves  rolled  away  and  set  our  little 
craft  to  pitching  and  rocking  in  a  manner  that  was  very 
exhilarating. 

Presently  we  came  to  "the  coal  fleet,"  and  had  to 
make  quite  a  detour  to  get  around  it.  This  fleet  was 
an  immense  mass  of  loaded  coal  barges  moored  close 
together  and  attached  to  trees  on  the  shore  by  great 
ropes.  The  coal  was  destined  for  towns  up  the  Missis- 
sippi ;  but  the  steamers  which  towed  the  boats  down 
the  Ohio  from  the  mining  regions  were  unable  to  strug- 
gle up-stream  with  all  they  brought  down,  and  a  part  of 
the  tow  had  to  be  left  here  to  be  sent  on  later. 

While  we  were  passing  the  coal  fleet  my  companion 
let  our  boat  drift,  and  he  watched  attentively  the  black- 
birds fluttering  about  the  floodtrash  that  had  lodged 
against  the  barges.  "They  are  pickin'  up  worms, 
toad  frogs,  and  one  thing  another,"  he  said.  He 


154     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

wished  he  had  brought  his  rifle;  for  he  was  confident 
he  could  easily  have  shot  enough  for  "a  pot  pie." 

We  went  on  until  we  were  at  the  meeting  of  the 
rivers  and  saw  the  waters  leaping  and  eddying  in  rough 
contention.  Each  river  was  distinct  from  the  other  in 
color  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  down  the  broad  channel. 
The  Ohio  was  a  light  yellow  and  the  Missouri  a  dark 
coffee  color.  Both  were  laden  with  sediment,  but  the 
latter  carried  by  far  the  most. 

On  our  way  back  we  were  overtaken  by  a  shower. 
The  sun  glimmered  through  it,  and  my  rower  remarked, 
"Shine  and  rain  together  —  the  devil's  beatin'  his  wife/' 

"Why  is  he  beating  her?"  I  asked. 

"Because  she  done  burnt  de  biscuits  las'  Sunday," 
was  the  reply. 

I  wanted  to  see  some  of  the  farming  country  in  the 
vicinity,  and  one  day  I  made  a  trip  across  the  Mississippi. 
The  region  on  the  west  shore  had  all  been  under  water, 
even  the  land  behind  the  levee.  The  roads  were  not 
passable  to  a  person  on  foot,  and  I  kept  to  the  embank- 
ment and  followed  its  curves  and  angles  for  four  or  five 
miles.  Sometimes  I  had  the  river  in  sight,  but  usually 
the  levee  was  well  back  inland,  with  half-flooded  corn- 
fields and  heavy  growths  of  cottonwood  between  it  and 
the  stream.  Occasionally  I  would  see  the  tips  of  tall 
steamer  smokestacks  with  their  black  smoke  plumes 
moving  along  beyond  the  trees  and  never  get  the  least 
glimpse  of  the  vessel  itself.  The  flood  had  receded 


At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  155 

somewhat,  and  where  the  current  had  flowed  strongest 
across  the  fields,  the  land  was  much  furrowed  and  was 
scattered  with  drift  rubbish.  This  rubbish  varied  from 
cornstalks  to  vast  tree  trunks  with  roots  and  broken 
branches  attached. 

The  levee  and  the  rough,  half-wooded  land  along  the 
river  serve  the  local  cattle  for  pasturage,  or  "range,"  as 
the  people  themselves  say.  The  water  had  been  so 
high  and  the  season  so  backward  that  the  creatures  had 
been  having  hard  fare,  and  they  were  as  thin  and  gaunt 
as  scarecrows,  and  their  hair  was  tangled  full  of  cockle 
burs.  They  licked  up  the  grass  and  weeds  on  the  levee 
and  wandered  over  such  of  the  last  year's  cornfields  as 
were  not  flooded.  When  there  was  bare  ground  beyond 
the  backwater  the  cattle  were  sure  to  seek  it  out.  They 
would  go  in  slow,  steady,  single  file,  wading  up  and 
down  over  the  submerged  ridges,  and  now  and  then  dis- 
appearing all  but  their  heads.  The  calves  followed  the 
rest,  even  though  they  had  to  swim  half  the  distance. 
Once  out  of  the  water  the  creatures  would  begin  to  crop 
the  tufts  of  grass  that  had  succeeded  in  thrusting 
through  the  mud,  and  sometimes  would  nibble  the 
leaves  from  the  trees. 

The  levee  on  which  I  was  walking  was  quite  impres- 
sive, it  was  so  immense,  so  regular,  so  unending.  Ap- 
proached sidewise  it  made  a  considerable  hill  to  climb 
over,  while  the  top  was  a  much-used  highway  deeply 
marked  by  cattle  and  pedestrians  and  occasional  horse- 


156     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

back  riders  with  a  broad  hard-trodden  footpath.  On 
the  landward  side  the  fields  were  large  and  smooth,  and 
looked  fertile  and  well-tilled.  Here  and  there  were 
pleasant  homes,  none  of  the  dwellings  fine,  but  as  a 
rule  cosey  and  clean,  with  vines  and  shrubbery  and 
shade  trees  growing  about  them. 

Of  course  there  were  the  ruder  and  less  orderly 
homes,  too;  and  in  particular  I  noted  a  negro  cabin 
on  the  edge  of  the  levee  that  was  a  real  marvel  in  its 
way.  One  end  had  settled  down  off  its  blocking  and 
had  slewed  the  whole  structure  out  of  shape,  opening 
cracks,  twisting  floor  boards,  and  tilting  the  porch  roof 
the  wrong  way.  I  tried  to  find  out  what  had  happened 
to  the  house,  but  could  only  learn  that  it  had  been  just 
like  that  a  long  time,  and  that  the  owner  was  intending 
to  tear  it  down,  so  there  was  no  use  attempting  to 
better  it. 

Not  far  away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  levee,  I  stopped 
at  a  farmhouse  to  talk  with  a  sunbonneted  white  woman 
who  was  making  soft  soap  in  the  yard.  She  had  a  fire 
with  a  great  black  kettle  over  it  and  said  she  was  "bilin' 
the  lye.  It  has  to  bile  slow  all  the  morning,"  she  con- 
tinued, "till  it's  very  strong.  Then  I  put  in  the  fat  I've 
saved  —  trimmin's  of  meat  sich  as  we  don't  eat,  pork 
rinds,  and  the  cracklin's  that  we  have  left  when  we  are 
trying  out  lard.  After  the  fat  is  in  I  have  to  stir  it  every 
little  while  with  a  paddle  and  be  careful  not  to  have  too 
big  a  fire,  or  it  will  bile  over.  So  it  simmers  along  till 


\ 

jj^mfO 


V*. 


At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  157 

four  or  five  o'clock  and  is  done;  and  when  it's  stood  to 
cool  over  night  I  dip  it  out  into  a  flour  barrel.  If  the 
soap  is  all  right  it's  thick  like  jelly,  and  I'd  much  rather 
have  it  than  the  soap  you  buy.  What  I  make  in  this 
kittle  will  run  me  a  year." 

I  could  see  that  the  recent  flood  had  been  up  in  the 
yard;  but  it  had  not  reached  the  house.  "The  floods 
are  the  worst  thing  there  is  about  this  country,"  the 
woman  declared.  "Now  this  year  the  big  slues  in  the 
fields  won't  dry  out  all  summer  we've  had  sich  an  over- 
flow, and  we  couldn't  git  our  garden  broke  up  till  two 
days  ago.  I  think  potatoes  had  ought  to  be  planted  in 
the  dark  o'  the  moon  to  do  real  well,  and  a  heap  o' 
people  talk  thataway;  but  with  the  water  comin'  up 
hyar  like  it  does  you  have  to  plant  when  you  can.  I 
was  raised  in  Kentucky,  and  it  always  seems  to  me  we 
got  kind  of  a  queer  climate  hyar.  Sometimes  it  turns 
in  pretty  dry,  and  then  ag'in  thar's  too  much  rain. 
I  never  beared  what  'twas  like  till  I  come  hyar,  and  I 
allow  I'd  'a'  stayed  in  Kentucky  if  I'd  knowed." 

When  I  returned  to  Cairo  it  was  evening,  and  the 
flooded  bottoms  were  vocal  with  strange  pipings,  gut- 
turals, croakings,  and  mutterings.  All  the  swamp  crea- 
tures were  rejoicing  in  the  abounding  water  and  were 
singing  their  weird  songs  of  contentment  and  love. 

NOTE.  — Cairo  can  hardly  be  called  an  ideal  town  for  tourists,  and  yet 
a  day  or  two  can  be  spent  there  with  profit  and  pleasure.  One  should 
see  for  oneself  the  meeting  of  the  two  giant  rivers,  and  should  get 


158     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

acquainted  with  the  loiterers  and  workers  of  the  waterside,  and  with 
the  houseboat  folk,  and  should  go  for  a  ramble  on  the  levees. 

The  town  did  not  especially  interest  me  aside  from  the  features  I 
describe  ;  yet  I  do  not  claim  to  have  done  the  place  full  justice,  for 
I  dwell  only  on  certain  picturesque  characteristics  that  impressed  me  in 
my  casual  wanderings.  When  this  chapter  appeared  as  one  of  a  series 
of  articles  published  in  the  Outing  Magazine,  the  Cairo  Bulletin  com- 
mented on  it  in  a  long  editorial  headed  "Cairo  Maligned  Again."  The 
Bulletin  says  that  Charles  Dickens,  in  his  famous  travels  in  America, 
"influenced  by  a  severe  attack  of  the  influenza,  proceeded  to  void  his 
wrath"  on  Cairo,  and  it  has  ever  since  "been  fashionable  by  a  certain 
nondescript  class  of  writers ' '  to  copy  his  thoughts  ifnot  his  words.  ' '  Young 
authors  whose  works  do  not  command  attention  without  the  thin 
yellow  line  of  sensationalism,  and  who  fail  to  realize  that  the  immortal 
novelist  succeeded,  not  because  of  his  abuse  of  this  city,  but  in  spite  of 
it,  are  disposed  to  fall  into  the  same  error  which  caused  Charles  Dickens 
such  keen  regret  during  the  late  years  of  his  life." 

The  Bulletin  thinks  I  ought  to  have  devoted  more  time  "  to  an  ex- 
amination of  the  religious,  social,  and  commercial  life  of  the  city."  It 
adds  that  if  the  author  "had  embraced  the  opportunity  to  attend  divine 
services  in  the  city  at  any  one  of  the  dozens  of  churches,  he  might  have 
felt  in  a  much  less  libelous  frame  of  mind.  If  Mr.  Clifton  Johnson  will 
take  the  trouble  to  repeat  his  visit  to  this  city,  giving  due  notice  of  his 
expected  advent,  he  will  have  quite  as  much  reason  as  he  did  upon  the 
occasion  of  his  first  introduction  to  the  community  for  reporting  that 
'the  place  is  probably  not  charming  at  any  season.'  ' 

After  all,  doesn't  the  editor's  closing  hint  of  tar  and  feathers,  or 
whatever  the  forms  of  personal  violence  may  be  that  he  had  in  mind, 
savor  more  of  the  dominance  of  saloon  influence  in  his  city  than  of  the 
many  churches  he  mentions  ?  Cairo  undoubtedly  has  a  better  side  than 
that  I  particularly  describe,  but  it  has  also  a  worse  side  if  this  bigoted 
editorial  is  a  fair  sample  of  the  tenor  of  its  citizens'  minds. 

The  pith  of  Charles  Dickens' s  reference  to  Cairo  is  as  follows  :   "At 


^  Y 


SOFT-SOAP 


At  the  Meeting  of  the  Waters  159 

the  junction  of  the  two  rivers,  on  ground  so  low  and  marshy  that  at 
certain  seasons  of  the  year  it  is  inundated  to  the  housetops,  lies  a  breed- 
ing-place of  fever,  ague,  and  death.  A  dismal  swamp  on  which  the 
half-built  houses  rot  away  ;  cleared  here  and  there  for  the  space  of  a  few 
yards,  and  teeming  then  with  rank,  unwholesome  vegetation ;  a  place 
without  one  single  quality  in  earth  or  air  or  water  to  commend  it — such 
is  Cairo." 


IX 


MARK  TWAIN'S    COUNTRY 


MARK  TWAIN  has  been  a  good  deal  of  a  wan- 
derer, but  the  region  that  is  peculiarly  his  own 
and  that  his  memory  lingers  over  most  fondly 
is  the  land  of  his  boyhood.  Again  and  again  he  recurs  to 
it  in  his  books,  and  portrays  with  rare  vividness  the  old 
life  he  then  knew.  His  home  was  at  Hannibal,  Missouri, 
a  loafing,  out-at-the-elbows,  slave-holding  river  town. 
As  matters  were  then,  the  Mississippi  was  far  more 
interesting  than  anything  else  to  the  inhabitants,  and 
the  big  steamboats  arriving  daily  out  of  the  mysterious 
unknown  of  the  North  and  South  never  failed  at  their 
approach  to  rouse  the  town  from  its  usual  torpor  into 
alert  activity.  The  world  lay  whence  they  came  and 
whither  they  went;  but  now  they  are  infrequent,  and 
their  work  is  done  by  the  prosaic  railroads. 

Hannibal  has  grown  a  good  deal  in  the  last  fifty  years, 
but  here  and  there  the  old  lingers  amidst  the  new,  and 
surrounding  nature  in  its  wild  hills  and  glens  is  essen- 
tially unchanged.  Great  ragged  bluffs  rise  successively 
along  the  river  front,  and  the  loftiest  height  of  all,  with 
an  altitude  of  three  hundred  feet,  almost  overhangs  the 

160 


Mark  Twain's  Country  161 

heart  of  the  town.  This  is  one  of  the  "  Lover's  Leaps  " 
you  find  all  along  the  river;  for  wherever  a  particularly 
bold  cliff  rises  above  the  stream  it  has  been  given  the 
title  mentioned  and  a  vague  legend  has  grown  that  long 
ago  some  lovesick  Indian  jumped  off  the  height  to  his 
death.  At  any  rate  these  bluffs  are  quite  appropriate 
for  such  a  performance.  About  Hannibal  they  slope 
away  from  the  stream  in  green,  tree-dotted  pastures, 
for  the  most  part.  On  the  hills  inland  are  scattered 
farmhouses  and  many  orchards,  patches  of  forest, 
fields  of  grass,  corn,  and  small  fruits.  There  are  clear 
streams  in  all  the  hollows,  and  so  much  variety  every- 
where in  the  landscape  that  the  region  seems  a  boyhood 
paradise,  unfailingly  stimulating  to  the  youthful  imagi- 
nation and  full  of  possibilities. 

The  house  the  humorist  lived  in  still  stands  and  is 
much  the  same  as  it  always  was  —  a  stumpy,  two- 
story,  clapboarded  dwelling  close  to  the  sidewalk.  It 
is  just  off  the  main  street  snugged  in  among  other 
similar  buildings.  The  senior  Clemens  had  a  printing 
shop  upstairs  in  the  L  of  the  house,  and  as  there  were 
several  children  the  living  rooms  must  have  been  pretty 
well  crowded. 

"All  the  family  was  the  nicest  people  you  ever  saw," 
I  was  told;  "but  they  were  very  poor  and  the  father 
died  bankrupt  when  Mark  was  twelve  years  old." 

On  the  next  street  lived  "Huckleberry  Finn,"  whose 
real  name  was  Tom  Blankenshipp.  In  the  books  this 


1 62     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

lad  turns  out  to  be  quite  an  admirable  character,  but 
in  actual  life  he  and  all  his  relatives  were  a  very  rough 
lot,  and  when  he  left  town  it  was  to  go  to  the  peni- 
tentiary. The  author's  descriptions  of  Huckleberry's 
father  fit  the  person  who  was  "the  town  drunkard  —  old 
man  Finn."  His  end  could  hardly  have  been  more 
tragic  even  in  fiction.  He  was  locked  up  one  night  in 
the  calaboose,  and  in  lighting  a  match  to  have  a  smoke 
set  fire  to  the  building  and  was  burned  to  death. 

The  Huckleberry  Finn  house  was  always  rude,  but 
it  has  not  yet  succumbed  to  either  age  or  chance,  and 
its  ruinous,  unkempt  antiquity  is  quite  worthy  of  its 
associations.  Two  or  three  negro  families  now  live  in 
it,  and  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the  women 
inmates  who  was  sitting  out  in  front  lunching  on  bread 
and  a  dish  of  greens.  Once  in  a  while  she  gave  a  bit 
of  the  bread  to  her  little  dog  that  hovered  about  ex- 
pectantly. "I'd  be  eatin'  indoors,"  she  remarked  to 
me,  "but  it  kind  er  wet  in  dar  sence  dis  yere  big  rain 
yisterday." 

There  were  holes  in  the  roof,  and  I  asked  if  the  water 
came  down  through  from  the  upper  story. 

"Oh,  no,  honey,"  she  responded.  "It  flowed  right 
in  de  door.  I  live  at  de  bottom  er  de  house  three  steps 
lower  dan  de  sidewalk,  an'  de  water  have  an  easy  chance 
to  git  in;  but  it  mos'  dried  away  now." 

"This  is  the  Huckleberry  Finn  house,  isn't  it?"  I 
inquired. 


THE  STEPPING-STONES  AT  THE  FORD 


Mark  Twain's  Country  163 

"It  sholy  is,"  was  the  reply,  "an'  las'  year  Huckle- 
berry Finn  and  Mark  Twain  both  was  hyar  to  see  it. 
Dey  come  togedder  in  a  two-horse  coach,  an'  dey  each 
one  give  me  a  quarter." 

"Yo'  doan'  know  nothin'  what  yo'  talkin'  about," 
said  an  irritated  male  voice  from  inside  the  lower  room. 
"Huckleberry  Finn  is  daid  long  ago." 

"  No,  he  ain't,"  was  the  woman's  reply.  "  He  was  hyar 
las'  year  an'  give  me  a  quarter.  He  was  a  little  dried 
up  ole  man  and  he  had  whiskers  an'  look  some  like 
Santa  Claus.  You  seen  Santa  Claus  picture,  ain't  you, 
mister?  Mark  Twain  is  a  heap  bigger'n  Huckleberry 
Finn." 

"He's  daid,  I  tell  yo'!"  said  the  voice  indoors  in 
gruff  anger. 

From  a  window  upstairs  a  dishevelled  young  colored 
woman  was  looking  down.  The  window-glass  was 
mostly  gone,  and  she  had  her  head  thrust  through  a 
hole  left  by  a  missing  pane  and  one  arm  through  a 
similar  opening  just  below,  so  that  she  could  rest  her 
chin  on  her  hand;  and  she  made  a  very  grotesque  sort 
of  a  tableau.  The  woman  below  referred  the  matter  in 
dispute  to  this  looker-on,  who  said  it  was  Huckleberry 
Finn  that  called  with  Mark  Twain,  and  no  mistake. 
Her  response  maddened  the  man  inside  past  endurance, 
and  he  began  swearing  and  stamping  about  and  finally 
slammed  the  door. 

The  woman  with  the  lunch  rolled  up  her  eyes  depre- 


164     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

catingly.  "  My  man  git  plumb  crazy  over  his  own  mis- 
takes," she  declared.  "  He  doan'  know  he  wrong  when 
I  tell  him  so,  an*  when  all  de  neighbors  tell  him  so,  too. 
God  has  sent  a  judgment  on  me  for  marryin'  dat  man. 
I  gwine  go  away  to  St.  Louis  an'  jine  a  show  if  it  ain't 
nothin'  but  de  hoochy-koochy ! " 

The  part  of  the  town  I  was  in  lay  at  the  foot  of  a 
steep  and  lofty  hill  with  little  homes  clinging  to  it,  and 
here  and  there  stairways  and  zigzag  paths.  Farther 
north  were  other  hills  and  among  these  the  boys  used 
sometimes  to  dig  for  treasure,  and  here,  according  to 
the  Tom  Sawyer  book,  was  a  haunted  house.  Even 
now  there  is  a  "Ghost  Holler."  I  was  told  about  it  by 
a  woman  who  lived  near  by.  "  It's  a  very  lonely  place," 
said  she.  "It's  shady  and  awful  deep,  with  high  rocks 
on  both  sides,  and  it's  always  damp,  and  the  ferns  grow 
there.  It  looks  ghostly  —  it  really  does ;  and  some 
people  say  they  see  things.  I  know  the  children  have 
been  in  there  and  heard  strange  sounds  and  come  run- 
ning home  they  were  so  afraid.  Folks  claim  some  one 
was  murdered  in  that  holler  a  long  time  ago." 

The  woman  was  standing  at  her  garden  gate,  and  I 
had  interrupted  her  in  the  midst  of  a  chat  with  another 
woman,  her  nearest  neighbor.  "Speakin'  of  Ghost 
Holler,"  said  the  latter,  "  reminds  me  of  when  Will  and 
I  was  first  married.  Don't  you  remember,  Mame,  the 
old  house  in  the  west  part  of  the  town  we  moved  into  ? 
People  told  that  the  house  was  haunted  by  a  woman 


Mark  Twain's  Country  165 

who  had  died  there,  and  my  Aunt  Isabel,  when  she 
found  I  was  goin'  to  live  in  the  house,  she  give  me  a 
talkin'  to.  She  said,  *  Don't  you  do  it.  You'll  never 
have  no  peace.  That  woman  comes  back  nights  and 
she  takes  the  tin  pans  and  the  dishes  and  makes  such 
a  rattlin'  no  one  can't  sleep.' 

"I  got  so  nervous  over  what  she  said  I  told  Will  I 
wouldn't  go  there.  But  he  laughed  at  me,  and  he  said 
Aunt  Isabel  was  superstitious  or  she  wouldn't  'a'  re- 
peated such  nonsense;  and  he  said  once  when  he  was 
a  boy  and  was  out  in  the  dark  he  see  a  big  black  thing 
in  the  woods  that  seemed  like  some  terrible  monster, 
and  he  thought  to  himself,  'Maybe  it  is,  and  maybe 
it  ain't.  If  it  is,  I'm  a  goner  anyhow  whether  I  run 
or  not,  and  so  I'll  just  find  out/  Then  he  went  right 
to  it,  and  it  was  nothin'  but  a  half-burnt  stump.  Ever 
since  that  time,  when  he  sees  anything  strange  in  the 
dark  he  jus'  goes  straight  to  it,  and  he  says  he  wants 
his  children  to  do  the  same.  He  does  hate  raisin' 
children  up  cowards.  Well,  we  went  to  the  house  he'd 
rented,  and  my  pans  and  things  stayed  quiet  on  the 
shelves  same  as  they  would  in  any  house." 

The  hill  where  the  boys  used  to  dig  for  treasure  with 
most  enthusiasm,  expecting  to  find  "a  brass  pot  with 
a  hundred  dollars  in  it,  or  a  rotten  chest  full  of  di'- 
monds,"  was  two  miles  north  of  the  town  up  the  "  river 
road"  that  creeps  along  the  verge  of  the  stream.  Ac- 
cording to  tradition,  the  old  Spanish  explorers  buried 


1 66     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

vast  riches  there.  Adults  as  well  as  youngsters  have 
delved  after  the  fabled  treasure,  and  the  search  has  not 
even  yet  been  abandoned;  but  if  the  scrubby  pasture 
height  holds  any  golden  hoard  in  its  stony  soil  it  has 
thus  far  kept  the  secret  well.  Another  attraction  that 
the  hill  has  is  an  Indian  mound.  This  is  on  the  loftiest 
crest  of  the  bluff,  an  impressive  spot  commanding  an 
immense  sweep  of  river  and  valley.  The  mound  is 
eight  or  ten  feet  high  and  has  a  base  some  twenty  feet 
across.  These  mounds  are  common  on  the  uplands, 
but  they  have  all  been  dug  into  and  pillaged  by  the 
whites. 

The  most  notable  of  the  Tom  Sawyer  adventures 
occurred  in  a  cave  three  miles  beyond  the  town  in  the 
other  direction.  The  cave  entrance  is  in  a  low  valley 
to  which  a  long  winding  road  descends  from  the  main 
highway  on  the  hills.  This  road  has  been  abandoned, 
and  I  found  it  gullied  by  rains  and  growing  up  to  bushes, 
and  the  bridges  across  the  brooks  had  rotted  out  and 
fallen  in.  But  I  contrived  to  get  along  until  a  big 
black  storm  came  swooping  across  the  sky.  Luckily  I 
was  now  near  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  and  I  soon  came 
out  of  the  woods  into  a  clearing  and  saw  a  house  not 
far  away.  Great  drops  of  rain  were  beginning  to  pelt 
down  out  of  the  gloomy  sky,  and  I  ran.  I  did  not 
escape  altogether;  but  the  worst  of  the  storm  came 
afterward  and  was  mingled  with  a  dash  of  hail. 

The  house  was  empty  when  I  entered  it.     However, 


MARK  TWAIN'S   BOYHOOD   HOME 


Mark  Twain's  Country  167 

a  few  moments  later  a  woman  hurried  in  with  five 
children.  She  said:  "They  been  playing  down  to  the 
creek.  I  can't  keep  'em  away  from  there,  talk  all  I 
will.  Do  you  see  that  there  blanket  out  on  the  line  ? 
I've  washed  it  three  times  to-day,  and  every  time  the 
line  has  broken  and  let  the  blanket  down  in  the 
dirt.  Now,  it  was  jis'  gettin'  tolerable  dry,  and  see 
how  the  rain  is  soakin'  it.  I  never  was  so  discouraged 
in  my  life.  We  moved  here  a  month  ago,  and  we  ain't 
had  nothin'  but  rain  since.  We've  put  in  our  garden, 
but  seems  like  the  seeds  was  all  goin'  to  rot  on  us 
before  they  can  come  up.  I  don't  know  what's  got 
into  our  climate,  it's  so  different  from  what  it  was  when 
I  was  a  girl." 

The  children  for  a  time  looked  at  me  while  their 
mother  talked,  and  then  glanced  around  to  find  other 
amusement.  Presently  the  mother  exclaimed  sharply, 
"Come  away  from  that  cat,  Harry  !"  and  turning  again 
to  me  remarked,  "I  ain't  much  stuck  on  livin'  in  the 
country." 

The  boy  had  not  been  quelled,  and  the  cat  was 
making  audible  protests  at  his  treatment.  "Harry,"  said 
his  mother  with  more  energy  than  before,  "leave  that 
cat  alone";  and  she  continued  half  to  herself  and  half 
to  me,  "What  does  make  a  youngone  keep  on  a-doin' 
a  thing  thataway  after  you've  tol'  him  to  quit?" 

Two  of  the  children  stepped  to  the  door  and  held 
their  hands  out  to  the  rain.  The  mother  called  them 


1 68     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

back  and  then  observed:  "I  don't  want  'em  wet 
because  they  got  the  whoopin'-cough  and  might  be 
made  sick.  They  ain't  havin'  it  powerful  bad  though. 
They  don't  whoop.  They  jis'  cough  hard  an'  gag  an' 
throw  up;  but  throwin'  up  is  a  good  sign,  you  know." 

She  gazed  out  of  the  window.  "There's  too  many 
hills  here,"  said  she.  "It's  all  so  up  and  down  that 
it's  discouragin'  to  look  at  it.  I  don't  see  why  any 
one  should  want  to  live  in  Missouri.  I  reckon  Illinois 
is  better;  but  law !  I  might  not  think  so  if  I  was  there. 

"Until  late  years  my  husband  always  lived  in  the 
town.  Me  'n'  him  was  raised  on  the  same  street;  and 
when  I  was  young  folks  I  used  to  say  I  wouldn't  marry 
a  countryman,  no  matter  how  rich  he  was.  One  of  our 
best  friends  is  a  man  that  is  a  farmer  and  always  has 
been.  We  was  still  livin'  in  town  when  we  got  ac- 
quainted with  him,  which  was  jis'  after  we  was  married; 
and  he  said  if  he'd  seen  me  sooner  he'd  'a'  married  me 
instead  of  his  own  wife.  I  turned  up  my  nose  at  that 
because  I  wouldn't  have  looked  at  any  one  but  a  city 
man  for  a  husband  then ;  and  yet  I  might  as  well  have 
taken  a  countryman  that  knowed  something  as  a  city 
man  that  didn't  know  anything.  A  countryman  un- 
derstands how  to  do  everything  about  crops  and  build- 
ings and  tools;  but  a  city  man  when  he's  put  out  on  a 
farm  is  mighty  unhandy.  Oh,  it's  so  dead  here  from 
what  I'm  used  to!" 

Now  the  storm  was  past  and  the  sun  was  shining  forth 


Mark  Twain's  Country  169 

on  the  wet  earth  and  the  dripping  trees,  and  I  resumed 
my  walk.  The  woman  told  me  the  cave  was  "sort  o' 
on  the  bum,"  and  I  found  the  evidences  of  its  being 
a  run-down  pleasure  resort  quite  apparent.  Near 
the  entrance  were  a  few  shabby  buildings  including  a 
pavilion.  The  passage  into  the  earth  had  been  roughly 
enlarged,  and  a  slatted  door,  whacked  together  by  some 
tinkerer,  had  been  put  up.  I  joined  a  party  that  was 
just  going  in  with  a  guide  who  distributed  candles  and 
then  led  the  way.  The  cavern  honeycombs  the  earth 
with  several  miles  of  devious  and  tangled  passages,  and 
it  was  among  these  passages  that  Tom  Sawyer  and 
Becky  Thatcher  were  lost  on  that  Saturday  of  the  picnic, 
and  they  did  not  get  out  until  Tuesday  afternoon.  The 
walls  of  the  cave  are  a  monotonous  gray,  and  the  chan- 
nels never  have  width  or  height  enough  to  be  impressive; 
but  the  age  of  it  all,  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  are  not 
easily  forgotten.  Mostly,  the  interior  is  quite  dry,  but 
in  certain  spots  the  water  drips  through,  and  in  one  of 
the  little  side  channels  is  a  crystal-clear  pool  at  which 
every  visitor  stops  for  a  drink.  Except  for  the  smudgy 
and  odorous  candles  the  air  is  perfectly  pure.  There 
are  other  caves  in  the  hills,  and  a  resident  of  the  vicinity 
mentioned  to  me  that,  "Some  of  'em  have  got  satelites 
in  'em";  but  only  the  Mark  Twain  cave  has  been 
made  accessible  to  the  public. 

Our  guide  had  read  Mark  Twain's  works  and  was 
quite  capable  of  discussing  them.     "They're  entertain- 


170     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

ing,"  he  said;  "but  they're  mostly  fictition.  Mark 
was  here  last  year.  I  was  expecting  to  see  a  great  tall 
man,  and  yet  he's  no  larger' n  you  or  me,  and  just  an 
ordinary  man  to  look  at.  He's  got  a  big  reputation, 
though  —  probably  because  he's  kind  of  an  oddity  — 
something  on  the  ancient  order  I  might  say.  He  has 
a  rambling  disposition,  and  I  expect  it's  his  nature  to 
be  uneasy  and  to  think  some  other  place  would  suit  him 
better'n  the  one  he's  in  —  same  like  a  tramp.  He's 
livin'  in  Italy  just  at  present  and  writin'  the  history  of 
the  world  so  far  as  he  knows  it." 

The  author's  birthplace  was  Florida,  a  little  town 
up  Salt  River,  twenty  or  thirty  miles  away.  I  decided 
to  see  it,  but  the  railroad  does  not  go  nearer  than  a  half- 
dozen  miles  and  I  walked  the  rest  of  the  distance.  It 
was  a  pretty  savage  sort  of  a  highway  that  I  travelled  — 
a  chaos  of  ruts  and  ridges,  mud  and  pools.  It  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  ploughed  by  Satan  and  his  imps  to 
plague  mankind.  The  low  spots  were  a  wild  mixture 
of  sticks  and  stones  and  liquid  clay,  and  how  a  team 
could  get  along  and  keep  right-side  up  was  a  mystery. 
In  places  I  was  puzzled  what  to  do  myself,  and  once  or 
twice  I  climbed  along  on  the  fence.  I  grew  tired  of 
the  monotony  of  the  rolling  landscape.  There  was  a 
constant  succession  of  houses  and  fenced  fields  and 
grazing  herds;  but  the  houses  were  far  apart,  and  the 
fields  very  large,  and  the  roads  distressingly  straight. 
I  struggled  on  until  I  came  to  Salt  River,  and  there 


s 

Oi 

u. 
O 


Mark  Twain's  Country  171 

beside  the  swift,  muddy  current  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  two  old  ladies  sitting  on  a  log  fishing  in  great  quiet 
and  contentment.  They  had  thus  far  caught  only  one 
fish;  but  they  had  the  enticement  of  hope  to  cheer 
them;  and  apparently  the  companionship  of  each  other 
and  the  stream  and  the  fresh  leafage  of  spring  putting 
forth  on  the  banks  and  the  songs  of  the  birds  were 
happiness  enough,  fish  or  no  fish. 

On  the  crest  of  the  hill  beyond  was  the  village,  a 
primitive  hamlet  well  away  from  the  busy  world,  and 
seldom  stirred  from  its  placidity.  Its  visible  life,  as 
I  saw  it,  consisted  largely  of  loiterers  around  the  store 
porches  and  numerous  wandering  pigs  on  the  streets. 
These  pigs  had  no  qualms  about  lying  down  to  sleep  in 
the  middle  of  the  highways,  and  their  miry  rooting- 
places  were  everywhere.  The  majority  of  them  be- 
longed to  the  proprietor  of  the  village  drugstore,  and  it 
was  his  habit  to  feed  them  directly  in  front  of  his  place 
of  business. 

I  found  lodging  at  an  old-fashioned  farmhouse.  The 
floors  were  covered  with  rag  carpets,  some  of  which  were 
quite  new  and  calculated  to  put  a  rainbow  to  shame 
with  the  variegated  brightness  of  their  stripes.  Rag 
carpets  are  the  standard  kind  throughout  the  Missouri 
country  among  sensible  people  of  moderate  means.  In 
a  back  shed  of  one  of  the  Florida  dwellings  was  a  car- 
pet in  process  of  weaving,  and  before  I  left  town  I  went 
in  and  watched  the  work.  The  woman  weaver  said 


172     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

she  earned  twelve  or  fifteen  dollars  each  spring  and  fall. 
She  charged  ten  cents  a  yard  and  had  to  work  very 
persistently  to  do  five  yards  in  a  day.  "It's  hard  on 
your  clothes  doing  this  weaving,"  she  added,  "and  I 
wear  out  enough  in  a  season  to  make  a  rag  carpet  for 
myself  out  of  'em." 

It  was  very  pleasant  that  first  evening  at  the  old  farm- 
house after  the  day's  tramping  to  sit  on  the  back  porch 
and  rest.  The  robins  carolled  in  the  trees,  the  swallows 
soared  and  twittered,  the  Bob  Whites  called  in  the  dis- 
tant fields,  and  the  odor  of  apple  blossoms  filled  the 
air  with  gentle  perfume. 

My  landlord  and  his  wife  were  old  like  the  house  they 
lived  in,  and  their  recollections  went  back  to  pioneer 
times.  After  supper  I  had  their  company  on  the  porch, 
and  also  that  of  a  few  mosquitoes.  "We  don't  have  the 
mosquitoes  the  way  we  used  to  have  'em  when  this 
country  was  first  settled,"  my  landlord  remarked; 
"but  you'd  find  plenty  yet  down  in  the  bottom  lands. 
There  ain't  much  water  up  hyar  on  the  hill  for  'em  to 
hatch  in." 

"No,"  said  his  wife,  "though  there's  a  right 
smart  of  'em  come  from  our  water  barrels,  and  I've 
always  heard  they're  a  heap  mo'  friendly  raised 
thataway. 

"When  I  was  a  little  girl,"  she  continued,  "hit  was 
all  woods  around  hyar  for  four  or  five  miles  north  and 
south  of  the  river  —  oak  and  wa'nut,  cottonwood, 


Mark  Twain's  Country  173 

ellum  —  everything.  We  didn't  have  any  wire  fences 
then.  They  was  all  of  split  rails.  Our  first-class  tim- 
ber is  pretty  much  gone  now.  We  got  plenty  of  wood 
to  keep  our  houses  warm,  but  we  don't  cut  down  any 
good  trees  and  burn  'em  on  the  ground  to  get  'em  out 
of  the  way,  as  we  did  once.  Wood's  worth  something. 
Why,  we  took  up  a  rail  fence  last  winter  was  a  year  ago, 
and  sold  hit  for  firewood  and  got  enough  to  buy  a  wire 
fence  to  take  hits  place." 

"I've  got  that  fence  around  my  cornland  down  by 
the  river,"  said  the  man.  "The  river  put  a  terrible 
sediment  on  the  bottoms  this  year  —  more  than  I've 
seen  in  any  fresh  for  a  long  time,  and  we'll  have  a  pow- 
erful crop.  Most  of  our  land  ain't  very  good  until  you 
get  out  on  the  prairies  beyond  this  strip  that  used  to  be 
wooded;  but  the  first  settlers  didn't  take  that  up 
because  hit  was  all  covered  with  great  coarse  grass, 
and  there  was  what  they  called  the  greenhead  fly 
on  the  prairies  that  you  couldn't  get  along  with 
nohow.  Them  flies  would  light  on  your  horses  like 
a  swarm  of  bees  and  bite  and  suck  blood  so  your 
horses  would  be  unmanageable  and  you'd  have  to 
race  'em  for  timber  land  along  the  nearest  crick. 
When  the  settlers  began  to  cultivate  the  prairie  they 
had  to  plough  nights  to  git  shet  of  them  flies.  The 
flies  was  raised  in  slues  and  stagnated  water,  I  reckon, 
and  after  the  grass  was  cut  and  the  land  opened  up 
to  the  sun  the  way  hit  was  when  the  settlers  begun 


174     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

to  come  pretty  thick,  the  hatching  places  was  dried 
up  or  was  drained  away  and  the  flies  jis'  naturally 
disappeared." 

I  mentioned  seeing  an  old  ruin  of  some  sort  on  the 
river  bank.  "That  was  a  water  mill,"  explained  the 
man.  "  Back  in  1840  we  had  two  hyar,  and  the  farmers 
would  drive  from  twenty-five  miles  around  to  get  their 
grain  ground.  They'd  put  on  all  the  wheat  they  could 
draw  with  four  horses  and  come  twice  a  year.  Often, 
there'd  be  wagons  waiting  ahead  of  'em  and  they'd  stay 
two  or  three  days  befo'  hit  was  their  turn.  While  they 
waited  they'd  camp  out.  I've  seen  'em  camped  around 
the  mills  most  as  thick  as  the  campers  that  used  to  come 
to  our  picnics." 

"What  picnics  were  those?"    I  asked. 

"Until  late  years  we  been  having  a  picnic  in  August 
every  year,"  said  my  landlady.  "All  the  people  in  the 
village  and  round  about  helped  to  organize  hit,  and  we'd 
select  a  place  in  the  bottom  by  the  stream  and  set  up 
some  posts  eight  or  ten  feet  high  and  put  crosspieces  on 
the  tops  and  lay  on  bresh  so  as  to  make  an  arbor  about 
fifty  feet  square.  Thousands  of  people  would  come,  and 
some  of  'em  would  be  from  forty  miles  away  and  would 
start  the  day  before.  These  distant  ones  would  get 
along  that  afternoon  or  evening  with  their  buggies  and 
surreys  and  wagons,  and  then  they'd  camp.  Every- 
body brought  food,  and  on  the  picnic  day  hit  was  all 
turned  over  to  a  man  in  charge,  who'd  make  one  big 


AFTERNOON  COMFORT 


Mark  Twain's  Country  175 

spread  of  hit  and  invite  the  people  to  come  up  and  help 
themselves." 

"And  there  was  plenty  of  grub  for  the  whole  crowd/' 
added  the  man.  "They  wouldn't  eat  nearly  all  of  hit. 
We  had  speeches  and  songs,  and  in  the  arbor  there  was 
fiddling  and  dancing  till  late  in  the  night.  Around  the 
sides  of  the  arbor  we  fixed  planks  on  blocks  so  the  ladies 
could  sit  down,  and  if  we'd  got  the  arbor  high  enough  so 
the  bresh  didn't  tech  a  feller's  hat  we  was  all  right.  Ah, 
the  picnic  was  a  great  thing;  but  she's  run  down  now." 

"This  town  has  changed  a  good  deal  since  I  can 
remember,"  remarked  the  woman. 

"Befo'  the  war,"  commented  the  man,  "we  had 
niggers  here  as  thick  as  blackbirds;  but  now  thar  are 
mighty  few  left.  We  were  all  Democrats  then,  and 
if  a  New  England  man  that  was  a  Republican  come 
here  and  stuck  to  his  principles  he  might  as  well  'a'  been 
a  cat  in  hell  without  claws." 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  war,"  observed  my  land- 
lady. "We  had  quite  a  little  fight  right  hyar  in  the 
village.  Some  Federal  soldiers  was  chased  by  a  party 
of  Confederates,  and  they  all  come  gallopin'  into  the 
village  jis'  at  daylight,  and  the  Federals  got  into  the 
schoolhouse.  The  guns  begun  poppin'  and  we  was  all 
scared  most  to  death.  I  and  my  folks  was  in  our  sum- 
mer kitchen,  and  my  mother  tol'  me  to  keep  away  from 
the  window  or  I'd  get  shot;  but  I  wanted  to  see  and  I 
looked  out.  Two  Confederates  was  killed  and  I  saw 


176     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

one  fall  from  his  horse.  The  soldiers  was  always 
raidin'  through  hyar,  one  side  or  the  other,  and  my 
mother  she  didn't  want  her  silver  spoons  stolen;  so  she 
wrapped  'em  up  in  a  towel  and  dropped  'em  into  a 
barrel  of  feathers.  But  some  of  the  Federals  come 
pokin'  around  one  day  and  they  found  'em,  and  they 
laughed  and  handed  'em  to  her  and  tol'  her  to  keep  'em 
where  they  belonged." 

"We  were  all  secesh,"  explained  the  man,  "and 
helped  off  our  bushwhackers  as  much  as  we  could. 
That  made  the  Federals  mad.  I  know  once,  when  they'd 
been  on  a  chase  that  didn't  succeed,  the  Federal  com- 
mander rode  our  streets  east,  west,  north,  and  south, 
and  shouted  he'd  jis'  devastate  this  country  for  ten 
miles  around  if  we  didn't  quit  givin'  the  enemy  informa- 
tion." 

"One  man  they  wanted  to  get  was  ole  man  Hick- 
man,"  my  landlady  continued.  "He  was  a  terrible 
Southern  man  and  a  spy.  The  Federals  surrounded 
the  town  once  and  'most  got  him.  They  come  within 
six  feet  of  where  he  was  hiding  in  a  little  hollow  among 
some  bushes." 

"I  bet  his  breath  was  short  then,"  interrupted  my 
landlord. 

"He  said  he  didn't  breathe  at  all,"  responded  the 
woman.  "But,  come  night,  he  crept  away  gruntin*  to 
imitate  a  hog  so  they  wouldn't  be  suspicious  if  they 
heard  him  movinV 


Mark  Twain's  Country  177 

"People  was  mighty  mean  in  time  of  the  war," 
mused  the  man — -"though  they're  mean  enough  any 
time,  as  fur  as  that  is  concerned.  They  thought  nothin' 
of  droppin'  in  on  you  with  ten  or  fifteen  horses  to  feed 
and  not  payin'  a  cent;  and  they  was  always  on  the  watch 
to  find  out  whether  you  was  helpin'  the  other  side. 
I  tell  you  it  made  a  fellow's  eyes  bug  out  to  have 
one  of  their  shinin'  guns  poked  in  the  window  at  you 


unawares." 


The  twilight  was  deepening  into  gloom  and  the  air 
was  growing  chilly.  Overhead  the  swallows  were  tak- 
ing their  last  flights.  I  stepped  out  into  the  yard  to 
look  at  them.  There  they  were,  hundreds  of  them,  fly- 
ing all  in  unison  in  a  vast  circle  with  wonderful  swift- 
ness. At  one  point  this  winged  ring  was  directly  above 
the  cavernous  chimney,  which  thrust  up  from  the  heart 
of  the  house,  and  the  birds,  after  making  many  feints  as 
if  they  would  dart  into  the  orifice,  at  last  began  in 
earnest  to  disappear  within  it,  each  dropping  with  such 
suddenness  as  almost  to  deceive  the  eyes.  The  circling 
continued,  but  with  lessening  numbers,  till  the  last 
feathered  meteor  was  gone.  The  chimney  adjoined 
my  chamber,  and  that  night,  whenever  I  awoke, 
I  heard  from  inside  it  a  light  rumble  of  wings  and 
intermittent  twitterings. 

Morning  came.  A  brisk  breeze  blew,  and  my  land- 
lord said,  as  he  sat  down  to  breakfast:  "Well,  I  do 
despise  this  wind.  Hit  kind  o'  makes  me  uneasy.  But 


178     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

they  say  we  don't  have  any  such  broadcast  blowing  as 
they  do  out  in  Kansas.  Two  fellers  from  there  was 
hyar  one  day  and  the  wind  was  blowing  so  I  couldn't 
hardly  keep  my  hat  on  my  head,  and  I  was  speakin'  of 
hit,  and  they  said,  'If  this  don't  suit  you,  don't  never 
go  west.  We'd  call  this  a  very  ca'm  day.  Why,'  they 
said,  'where  we  come  from,  if  you  put  your  hat  on  the 
windward  side  of  the  house,  the  wind  will  blow  so  hard 
and  steady  hit'll  stay  there  all  day.'" 

"I  can  get  along  with  most  any  wind  butacyclone," 
said  his  wife;  "and  I  feel  thankful  we  got  a  cyclone 
cellar  handy  to  the  back  door.  I'm  always  on  the  watch 
when  we  have  a  day  that's  extry  warm  and  still." 

"Hit's  a  bad  sign,  such  a  day,  if  you  see  a  black  cloud 
raisin'  in  the  west,"  said  the  man.  "Last  year  a 
cyclone  passed  within  sight  of  us.  We  watched  hit 
and  kept  all  ready  to  go  into  our  cellar  until  hit  got  too 
far  over  to  do  any  devilment  hyar.  Hit  was  only  a 
mild  away,  and  how  hit  rattled  —  my,  what  a  fuss 
thar  was  !  Forty  old  wagons  on  a  rough  road  wouldn't 
begin  to  make  as  much  noise.  Thar  was  a  funnel  an' 
what  seemed  to  be  smoke  bilin'  up  like  from  a  loco- 
motive. My  sakes  !  I  never  saw  so  black  a  smudge, 
and  down  low  was  a  queer,  yellow  glimmer.  Hit  made 
a  track  about  one  hundred  yards  wide  and  hit  taken 
everything  before  it.  Trees  a  little  decayed  hit  would 
twist  off  leavin'  only  a  stump,  and  trees  that  was  sound 
hit  would  jerk  right  up  by  the  roots,  no  matter  how  big 


VISITING 


Mark  Twain's  Country  179 

they  was.  Hit  cleared  everything  right  off  down  to  the 
ground,  and  I  been  tol'  hit  struck  some  hens  and  took 
their  feathers  off  jis'  as  clean  as  you  could  'a'  picked 
'em  off  yourself.  I  heared  tell,  too,  about  a  farmer  who 
had  a  lot  of  corn  stored  in  a  bin.  At  one  side  of  the 
bin  was  a  knot-hole,  and  the  cyclone  caught  that  corn 
and  drove  the  cobs  all  through  the  knot-hole.  That 
scraped  off  the  kernels  and  left  'em  in  a  nice  heap 
inside  the  bin.  One  place  thar  was  a  man  settin'  in 
his  house,  and  the  wind  tuck  that  house  right  up  and 
busted  it  plumb  to  pieces,  but  left  the  floor  and  the  man 
settin'  thar  in  his  chair." 

All  this  was  quite  interesting  ;  but  what  interested 
me  most  during  my  stay  in  Florida  was  to  meet  an  old 
lady  eighty-three  years  of  age,  who  remembered  dis- 
tinctly when  the  Clemens  family  were  residents  of  the 
place.  The  father  was  for  a  time  a  merchant  here  and 
built  a  log  house  to  live  in.  While  this  log  dwelling 
was  being  erected,  the  family  occupied  a  little  two- 
room  frame  house,  and  in  the  kitchen  of  that  house 
Mark  Twain  was  born,  November  30,  1835.  The  house 
still  stands,  though  now  vacant  and  rather  ruinous. 
The  family  moved  to  the  log  dwelling  when  the  baby 
was  three  or  four  weeks  old.  That  survived  until  recently, 
but  during  its  later  years  no  one  lived  in  it  and  people 
got  in  the  habit  of  taking  away  bits  of  it  as  Mark  Twain 
relics.  "Why,  they  tore  the  house  pretty  near  to 
pieces!"  said  the  old  lady.  "They'd  carry  off  brick- 


180     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

bats  from  the  chimney  and  pieces  of  glass  from  the 
windows  and  splinters  of  wood  from  the  doors  and  other 
parts,  until  they'd  got  about  everything  but  the  logs. 

"Mr.  Clemens  took  his  family  to  Hannibal  when 
Mark  Twain  was  still  a  very  little  boy,  and  since  the 
boy  has  growed  up  he  ain't  been  here  more'n  once  or 
twice.  He's  famous  —  and  yet  I  couldn't  see  that  he 
was  different  from  most  folks,  except  he  had  long  hair 
and  wa'n't  very  neat.  I've  read  his  travels  some. 
They're  light  and  trashy;  but  they're  jovial,  and  I 
suppose  that's  what  people  like  about  'em." 

When  I  returned  to  Hannibal  I  met  other  old-time 
acquaintances  of  the  humorist.  According  to  two 
ancients  whom  I  interrupted  in  an  endless  series  of 
checker  games  at  the  back  of  a  store,  Mark  Twain  is 
"the  most  overrated  man  in  America.  There's  about 
as  much  truth  in  those  sayings  in  his  books,"  I  was 
informed,  "as  there  is  in  a  ten-cent  novel.  His  brother 
Orion  who  was  a  printer  knew  more  in  a  minute  than 
Sam  ever  did  know;  and  yet  Orion  never  made  no 
reputation.  As  a  boy,  Sam  was  just  like  other  boys, 
except  he  might  have  been  a  little  slower.  He  was  con- 
sidered blamed  dull,  to  tell  you  the  truth.  It  was  his 
peculiar  drawl  and  accent  that  made  him  famous,  I'll 
be  dogged  if  it  wa'n't." 

But  another  man,  one  of  the  author's  old  schoolmates, 
discoursed  thus:  "He  was  a  mighty  still  sort  of  a  boy. 
He  was  distant,  and  had  as  a  rule  rather  be  by  himself 


Mark  Twain's  Country  181 

than  with  the  rest  of  the  boys.  Most  of  us  used  to  like  to 
get  in  a  skift  after  school  and  go  off  fishin'.  We'd  have  our 
poles  and  boxes  o'  worms  all  ready  under  the  school- 
house  and  we'd  grab  'em  out  soon  as  school  was  done 
and  go  off  across  the  river  to  the  slues  and  ponds  and 
stay  till  dark  drove  us  home.  But  I  never  ricolect  of 
Sam  a-goin'  fishin'  with  us  or  a-huntin'  with  us,  though 
he  liked  to  go  down  to  the  cave. 

"He  was  a  good  talker  and  had  the  same  slow  way 
o'  speakin'  he's  got  now.  If  he  was  to  come  along  this 
minute  and  say,  *  Charlie,  let's  me  'n'  you  go  down  to 
the  cave,'  I'd  know  him  just  by  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"Whatever  he  told  about,  he'd  talk  so  to  make  sport. 
He'd  tell  things  in  a  different  way  from  what  the  rest  of 
us  could,  and  it  sounded  funny.  He  used  to  tell  us  tales 
and  we  loved  to  listen  at  him.  His  father  had  a  book  — 
'The  Arabian  Nights'  -that  no  one  else  had  in  town, 
and  Sam  would  get  us  boys  together  of  evenings  and  tell 
us  stories  from  that  book,  and  we  was  glad  to  listen 
as  long  as  he'd  talk. 

"In  the  spring  of  '58  he  went  on  the  river  to  learn 
piloting,  because  then  the  steamboats  was  more  in- 
terestin'  than  anything  else,  and  you  found  people  from 
all  parts  of  the  world  travellin'  on  'em.  It  ain't  that- 
away  now.  Our  river  up  here  is  played  out." 

The  river  carried  Mark  Twain  away  to  new  scenes, 
and  he  has  seldom  returned;  yet  the  half-rustic  life 
of  the  town  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  rugged  hills  and 


1 82     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

vales  around,  no  doubt  contributed  much  in  develop- 
ing and  furnishing  inspiration  for  his  peculiar  genius. 

NOTE. — Any  one  who  likes  Mark  Twain's  books  will  find  Hannibal 
and  the  region  around  keenly  interesting.  With  its  varied  hills  and 
dales,  caves  and  rude  cliffs,  the  district  is  worth  exploring  on  its  own 
account,  but  when  you  have  added  to  that  the  sentiment  imparted  by 
the  famous  books  which  have  made  it  a  background  for  many  of  their 
incidents  the  attraction  is  superlative.  The  town  of  Florida,  which  I 
also  describe,  is  not  very  accessible,  and  has  not  even  a  poor  hotel,  but 
if  you  nevertheless  make  the  visit  you  will  carry  away  many  entertaining 
memories. 


THE  PROPHET'S  WELL 


THE    PLACE    OF   A   VANISHED   CITY 

ABOUT  1823,  m  western  New  York,  a  farm  lad, 
Joseph  Smith  by  name,  began  to  see  visions. 
He  was  seventeen  years  old.  For  a  long  time 
he  had  been  reflecting  on  religion,  and  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  withdrawing  to  secret  places  and  spending 
hours  in  prayer  and  meditation.  The  region  was  new 
and  still  half  wild;  the  facilities  for  travel  and  educa- 
tion were  few,  and  the  boy  knew  practically  nothing  of 
the  world,  and  had  received  little  or  no  schooling.  In 
the  visions  that  came  to  him  in  his  sleep  he  saw  an 
angel  "with  a  countenance  like  lightning,"  and  the 
house  was  filled  with  "consuming  fire."  The  angel 
told  the  lad  that  his  prayers  were  heard  and  his  sins 
forgiven,  and  declared  that  the  preparatory  work  for 
the  second  coming  of  the  Messiah  was  speedily  to  com- 
mence, for  which  work  the  boy  had  been  chosen  by 
God  to  be  an  instrument  in  spreading  the  gospel  in 
its  power  and  fulness  to  all  nations. 

This  angel  visited  the  farm  boy  many  times,  and 
among  other  things  told  him  much  about  the  aboriginal 
inhabitants  of  America,  of  how  they  sank  from  civili- 

183 


184     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

zation  to  savagery,  of  their  wars  and  religion  and 
prophets.  The  last  of  the  prophets  was  one  named 
Mormon,  who  at  God's  command  wrote  on  thin  plates 
of  gold  what  was  designed  to  be  a  supplement  to  the 
Hebrew  Scriptures.  After  these  revelations  were  duly 
inscribed,  the  golden  plates  were  hidden  by  the  prophet 
on  the  side  of  a  hill  near  what  is  now  Palmyra,  New 
York. 

Directed  by  the  angel,  Joseph  Smith,  the  farm  lad, 
whose  home  was  in  the  vicinity  of  this  hill,  found  the 
plates,  and  with  them  a  curious  instrument  which  he 
called  "urim  and  thummim,"  consisting  of  two  trans- 
parent stones  set  in  rims  and  having  some  resemblance 
to  spectacles.  The  characters  on  the  golden  plates 
were  in  an  unknown  language;  but  by  looking  through 
urim  and  thummim,  Smith  was  enabled  to  understand 
and  translate  the  ancient  records  into  English. 

In  1830  this  translation  was  printed  as  "The  Book 
of  Mormon,"  and  that  same  year  the  "  Church  of  Latter- 
Day  Saints"  was  organized  and  began  to  grow.  From 
a  membership  of  six  it  increased  in  a  twelvemonth  to 
over  one  thousand,  and  during  the  next  three  years  the 
young  prophet  ordained  hundreds  of  ministers  and  sent 
them  out  in  all  directions  through  the  country. 

Troublous  times  followed,  and  the  new  sect  was 
ridiculed  and  persecuted,  and  the  believers  migrated 
in  search  of  peace  from  one  place  to  another.  At 
length,  in  1838,  the  Mormon  saints  to  the  number  of 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  185 

fifteen  thousand  took  refuge  in  Illinois,  where  they  ob- 
tained a  grant  of  land  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi. 
At  the  spot  chosen  was  a  little  village  named  Commerce ; 
but  Smith,  in  obedience  to  one  of  the  revelations  he  was 
continually  receiving,  changed  the  name  to  Nauvoo, 
which  means  "The  City  of  Beauty." 

Nauvoo  was  not  long  in  becoming  the  largest  and 
most  promising  place  in  the  state;  and  yet  less  than  a 
decade  passed  before  it  was  well-nigh  deserted  and 
much  of  the  Mormon  property  had  been  confiscated 
and  the  prophet  had  been  slain.  The  place  has  stag- 
nated ever  since.  In  the  height  of  its  prosperity  and 
power  it  had  nearly  thirty  thousand  inhabitants.  Now 
there  are  twelve  hundred.  The  situation  is  very  at- 
tractive, with  the  river  making  a  long  sweep  around 
a  peninsula  two  miles  broad.  The  land  is  all  high  enough 
to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  the  floods,  and  recedes  from 
the  stream  in  a  smooth  stretch  of  meadows  and  fields 
to  where,  at  the  neck  of  the  peninsula,  there  is  a  sudden 
rise  to  a  commanding  plateau.  At  the  crest  of  the  rise 
stood  the  great  Mormon  temple;  but  the  business 
centre  was  down  below  on  a  broad  street  running  across 
the  peninsula  and  ending  with  the  river  both  north  and 
south.  This  wide  avenue  is  still  as  it  was,  and  so  are 
many  of  the  parallel  streets  and  crossways.  You 
can  easily  trace  the  orderly  plan  of  the  city — the 
skeleton  of  the  vanished  metropolis  —  though  the  old 
thoroughfares  are  nearly  all  grass-grown,  and  not 


1 86     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

infrequently  there  is  scarcely  a  sign  of  travel  on 
them. 

Some  of  the  Mormon  dwellings  were  of  brick,  some 
were  frame  structures,  and  many  were  of  logs  or  of 
wattle  daubed  with  clay.  A  considerable  number  of 
the  brick  and  frame  buildings  have  survived  and  are 
scattered  about  the  old  city  centre  and  far  back  into 
the  country.  On  the  high  river  bank  at  the  south 
end  of  Main  Street  is  the  home  of  the  prophet  Joseph 
Smith  —  a  clapboarded,  unpainted  farmhouse  of  mod- 
erate size.  It  never  was  very  substantial,  and  though 
it  is  still  occupied,  the  passing  years  have  left  it  badly 
dilapidated.  One  of  the  chambers  was  pointed  out 
to  me  with  the  information  that  the  prophet  used  to 
get  his  revelations  from  God  "in  that  there  room." 

In  the  yard  on  the  slope  that  fronts  the  river  lay  buried 
the  prophet's  wife  Emma,  and  roundabout  were  several 
other  graves,  some  marked  by  headstones,  but  more 
with  only  a  few  rocks  piled  up  on  them,  or  roughly 
outlined  with  a  row  of  bricks.  The  ground  was 
rather  dishevelled;  for  the  spot  had  served  some  pre- 
vious inmates  of  the  house  as  a  rooting-place  for  their 
hogs.  Now  it  was  overgrown  with  weeds  and  straggling 
thickets  of  gooseberry  and  lilac  bushes. 

Across  the  way  from  the  prophet's  house  is  a  large 
two-story  building  which  he  ran  as  a  hotel.  In  one 
of  the  upper  rooms  is  a  secret  closet.  It  is  a  closet 
within  a  closet,  and  very  well  concealed.  A  townsman 


OJ 

WNiVERSi 

OF 


AN  OLD  MORMON  DOORWAY 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  187 

in  speaking  to  me  of  it  said:  "No  genuine  prophet  of 
God  would  have  had  such  a  closet.  It  shows  he  had  a 
guilty  conscience." 

Another  person  told  me  that  Brigham  Young  was 
killed  in  the  secret  closet,  and  added,  "They  say  spat- 
ters of  his  blood  are  to  be  seen  on  the  wall  yet,  and 
some  people  who  go  in  there  imagine  they  see  his  ghost." 

Every  dweller  in  Nauvoo  had  something  to  tell  about 
the  Mormons — opinions,  facts,  legends,  hearsay.  Their 
occupancy  of  the  place  and  the  tragic  events  connected 
with  their  leaving  overshadow  all  other  happenings  be- 
fore or  since,  and  the  interest  is  always  kept  fresh  by 
the  questionings  of  chance  sojourners,  and  by  the  many 
Mormon  pilgrims  who  come  from  Utah  to  visit  this 
ancient  stronghold  of  their  faith.  The  old  hotel  is  now 
the  abode  of  a  washerwoman,  and  I  found  her  much 
concerned  over  some  Mormon  missionaries  who  had 
recently  preached  in  the  town.  "They  were  full- 
blooded  ones,"  she  said  —  "four  long-legged  things, 
with  coat  tails  down  to  their  knees,  and  I  didn't  like 
the  looks  of  'em.  They  preached  and  sang  up  here  on 
the  park,  and  they  boarded  with  a  man  who  had  a 
houseful  of  daughters.  My  goodness !  I  thought  that 
was  funny." 

But  there  were  other  things  she  talked  about  that 
were  of  more  personal  importance  to  her.  "A  year  ago 
I  got  the  malaria  from  picking  strawberries,"  said  she, 
"and  it  laid  me  flat  on  my  back.  I  never  got  better 


1 88     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

from  June  to  October,  and  it's  only  lately  I  stopped 
havin'  stomach  chills  so't  I  could  work  as  I  used  to.  I'd 
like  to  see  a  man  work  the  way  I've  worked;  but  the 
men  around  here  won't  take  a  job  unless  it  jus'  suits 
'em.  They  rather  be  idle,  and  they  wouldn't  lift  a 
hand  if  their  wives  was  to  drop  dead  over  the  washtub. 
I  go  at  it  before  six  in  the  morning.  When  noon  comes 
I  stop  to  cook  a  bite  to  eat  for  myself  and  the  chillens ; 
but  I'm  soon  to  work  again,  and  many  times  I've 
washed  and  ironed  and  had  a  dollar  earned  by  three 
o'clock." 

Farther  back  from  the  river  is  the  house  of  Brigham 
Young,  a  substantial  building  of  brick.  This  and  all 
the  other  brick  structures  of  the  Mormon  regime 
never  failed  to  have  a  touch  of  quaintness.  They 
showed  their  age,  and  many  had  broken  windows  and 
cracked  walls,  and  a  few  were  deserted  and  hasten- 
ing to  ruin.  Some  of  the  old-time  brick  buildings  are 
gone  altogether,  and  the  only  reminders  of  them  are 
remnants  of  foundations  turned  up  by  the  plough  and 
hoe  in  the  fields  and  gardens.  The  business  portion  of 
Nauvoo  is  now  on  the  hill;  but  except  for  a  little  cluster 
of  stores  the  place  is  a  rustic  village.  Great  quantities 
of  fruit  are  raised,  especially  strawberries  and  grapes. 
The  latter  are  very  largely  made  into  wine,  and  there 
was  always  wine  on  my  hotel  table.  Indeed,  the  land- 
lord declared  it  was  against  the  rules  of  the  house  for 
any  guest  to  drink  water. 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  189 

The  cultivated  fields  were  models  of  neatness,  which 
may  be  because  the  owners  are  mostly  Germans.  The 
Germans  are  thrifty  and  are  reputed  to  have  plenty  of 
money;  but  the  citizens  of  a  more  nervous  nationality 
are  wont  to  affirm  that  they  have  no  enterprise  and  do 
not  care  whether  the  town  booms  or  not. 

Nauvoo  is  seriously  handicapped  by  the  lack  of  a 
railroad.  It  is  true  the  railroad  is  within  sight  on  the 
west  bank  of  the  Mississippi,  and  a  steam  ferryboat 
plies  back  and  forth  across  the  broad  stream,  making 
five  trips  a  day;  but  when  the  river  freezes  the  only 
substitute  is  a  rowboat  shod  with  runners.  This  can 
go  after  a  fashion  quite  independent  of  what  element  is 
beneath  it.  If  there  are  spaces  of  open  water  or  ice  too 
thin  to  bear  the  boat's  weight,  the  crew  use  oars  and 
poles;  but  where  the  ice  is  thick  they  get  out  and  haul 
and  push.  No  matter  how  bad  the  conditions,  it  at 
least  contrives  to  make  one  trip  daily. 

The  placidity  of  the  Germans  was  an  irritation  to 
some  of  their  more  strenuous  neighbors;  yet  it  was 
quite  delightful  in  its  way.  One  of  them  with  whom 
I  made  friends  was  a  fat  elderly  man  whose  pudgy 
features  and  blue  eyes  were  always  twinkling  with  a 
smile.  He  was  a  picture  of  care-free  happiness  and 
contentment.  When  I  asked  him  whether  he  was 
going  to  get  a  task  he  had  started  done  that  day,  he 
said  he  did  not  know.  "  I  works  till  I  am  tired  and  then 
I  stops,"  he  explained. 


190     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

He  had  an  osage  hedge  about  his  vineyard,  and  its 
thorny  tangle  was  something  of  a  trouble  to  trim  and 
keep  in  order.  "But  dere  is  a  school  near,"  said  he, 
"and  dot  is  de  best  fence  dere  is  for  dose  poys.  Der 
hedge  have  so  many  stickers  dey  think  twice  before 
dey  try  to  get  through  dot." 

As  to  the  Mormons  he  said  they  used  to  go  out  into 
the  country  around  and  "steal  sheep,  pigs,  everything; 
and  dey  had  to  do  dot  dere  vas  so  many  to  feed.  Mine 
gracious !  some  of  dose  men  had  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  childrens." 

Opinions  of  the  character  of  the  old-time  Mormons 
varied.  Many  wild  deeds  were  done  in  their  day;  but 
not  all  the  ill-doing  could  be  justly  laid  to  them.  One 
early  settler  who  had  the  air  of  wanting  to  be  aggres- 
sively fair  to  friend  or  foe  said :  "  I  remember  when  they 
were  here  very  well,  and  the  majority  was  all  right. 
They  were  industrious  and  prosperous,  and  a  happier 
people  didn't  live  on  top  of  God's  earth.  Naturally, 
a  new  town  that  had  grown  in  five  years  from  nothing 
to  twenty-eight  thousand  would  draw  all  sorts  of  folks 
to  it,  and  would  be  more  or  less  tough.  Lots  of  fellows 
come  here  busted.  They'd  got  to  make  a  livin'  some- 
how, and  they  banded  together  and  stole  instead  of 
workin'.  If  one  of  'em  got  arrested  the  others  would 
swear  the  son  of  a  gun  was  somewhere  else  all  the  time  it 
was  claimed  he  was  breakin'  the  law.  So  he'd  get  off. 

"I've  heard  said  that  the  Mormons  would  go  a  few 


A  GARDEN  BONFIRE 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  191 

miles  out  back  here  in  the  night  and  kill  a  cow  in  some 
man's  pasture  and  get  the  carcass  in  their  wagon  and 
let  the  blood  drip  along,  and  that  then  the  other  cattle 
would  roller  the  trail  of  blood  and  the  Mormons  would 
get  the  whole  herd.  I've  been  told,  too,  that  a  great 
many  cut-throats  and  thieves  joined  the  Mormons,  and 
that  the  church  kind  o'  protected  'em  when  they  got 
into  trouble.  Well,  such  things  are  easier  charged  than 
proved.  You  see  there  was  a  good  deal  of  excitement 
and  suspicion  about  the  new  religion  and  the  way  Joe 
Smith  and  the  rest  was  carrying  on;  so  pretty  much  all 
the  crimes  that  was  committed  and  some  that  wa'n't 
committed  at  all  was  laid  to  the  Saints.  I  wish  the 
lyin'  hounds  who  invented  those  stories  could  'a'  been 
punished  as  they  deserved. 

"I  reckon  the  farmers  would  often  break  the  law 
on  the  Mormons'  credit.  There  were  men  so  anxious 
to  get  the  Mormons  into  trouble  that  they  would  steal 
and  hide  things  on  the  Mormons'  premises  and  then 
get  out  a  search-warrant  to  convict  'em  of  the  crime. 
Perhaps  all  that  would  have  blown  over  if  the  Saints 
hadn't  got  to  quarrellin'  among  themselves  about  this 
here  spiritual  wife  business.  Those  who  contrived  the 
idea  claimed  it  wa'n't  polygamy,  and  that  the  extra  wives 
who  was  sealed  to  a  man  —  whatever  that  meant  — 
was  to  be  his,  not  in  this  world,  but  in  the  next.  Pah ! 
That  was  their  way  of  pulling  the  wool  over  people's 
eyes. 


192     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"The  kickers  started  a  paper  here  they  called  the 
Expositor,  and  they  banded  in  with  all  those  who 
wa'n't  Mormons  and  wrote  like  the  devil  against  the 
new  religion.  *  Drive  the  Mormons  out  of  the  country/ 
was  what  the  Expositor  advocated.  The  Saints  got 
mad,  and  the  city  council  passed  an  ordinance  against 
the  apostates'  paper,  and  the  city  marshal  went  to  the 
office  with  a  blacksmith,  who  pounded  the  press  to 
pieces,  and  they  threw  the  whole  concern  out  into 
the  street.  That  was  the  yth  of  June,  1844,  and 
twenty  days  later  Joe  Smith  and  his  brother  Hyrum 
was  corpses.  We  had  wild  times  for  a  while,  and  the 
outcome  was  that  the  Mormons  thought  they  better 
skip  from  this  region. 

"There  was  apostates,  as  I  said;  but  most  of  the 
Mormons  stuck  to  their  religion  through  all  their 
troubles  and  the  discussions.  They  were  just  like  other 
people  —  very  tenacious  of  belief.  Joe  Smith  was  like 
other  people,  too.  Most  men  would  like  to  be  pope 
if  they  could,  and  Joe  enjoyed  the  power  his  scheme 
brought  him.  Some  think  it's  strange  he  could  get 
so  many  to  accept  his  religion;  but  people  can  be 
worked  up  to  believe  anything.  It's  easy  to  pick  flaws 
in  his  theology,  and  it's  easy  to  pick  flaws  even  in 
Christianity.  Now  I  tell  our  good  Christians  they 
ought  to  make  a  saint  of  Judas.  If  he  hadn't  brought 
about  the  death  of  Christ  none  of  us  could  be  saved, 
could  we  ?  Ain't  that  logic  ?  There's  a  good  many 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  193 

things  in  the  Bible  don't  seem  quite  right  to  me.  For 
instance,  I  haven't  never  liked  that  saying,  'Unto  every- 
one that  hath  shall  be  given/  If  I'd  been  writing  it  I'd 
have  said,  'Him  that  hath  little,  give  him  a  little  more. 
Help  him  along.'  But  what's  the  use  of  talkin'  ? 
There's  good  men  in  all  denominations,  and  there's 
just  as  good  outside  of  any  denomination." 

The  turmoil  that  brought  about  the  migration  of  the 
Mormons  from  Illinois  was  a  curious  mixup  of  perse- 
cution, politics,  religion,  and  warfare.  The  Mormon 
votes  were  a  valuable  asset;  for  neither  of  the  two  lead- 
ing political  parties  in  the  state  was  strongly  ascendant, 
and  concessions  were  made  to  the  Saints  that  could  not 
have  been  obtained  otherwise.  But  at  length  feeling 
ran  so  high  and  the  situation  became  so  threatening 
that  troops  were  sent  to  keep  the  peace.  The  Mormons 
had  a  trained  body  of  militia  of  their  own,  known  as 
"The  Nauvoo  Legion,"  and  this  prepared  for  resist- 
ance. Pickets  were  posted,  and  when  the  state  troops 
approached  there  was  a  real  battle  on  a  small  scale. 
A  man  who  lived  at  the  time  on  the  town  outskirts  where 
the  sharpest  fighting  occurred  told  me  something  of  his 
experiences. 

"The  bullets  was  flying  thick,"  he  said,  "and  my 
father  set  up  a  lot  of  plank  along  the  northeast  corner 
of  our  house  to  kind  o'  protect  it,  and  he  sent  me  and 
the  rest  of  the  family  down  cellar.  We  stayed  there  three 
or  four  hours,  except  that  I  crept  upstairs  once  in  a 


194     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

while  to  see  what  was  goin'  on.  Both  sides  had  can- 
non, and  when  the  cannon  belonging  to  the  assaulters 
was  shot  off,  the  Mormons  would  chase  the  balls  and 
shoot  'em  back.  Two  Mormons  was  killed,  and  the 
prophet  and  his  brother  Hyrum  was  carried  off  and  put 
in  the  county  jail  at  Carthage. 

"In  a  few  days  it  was  talked  around  that  the  governor 
intended  to  set  the  prisoners  free.  But  the  people  had 
got  tired  of  the  Mormons'  doin's  and  was  bound  to  break 
'em  up.  So  a  band  of  about  two  hundred  men  fixed 
like  Indians,  with  their  faces  painted  red,  black,  and 
yellow,  went  to  the  jail  and  called  Joseph  and  Hy- 
rum Smith  to  the  window.  Soon  as  the  two  brothers 
looked  out  dog-gone  if  the  mob  didn't  shoot  'em  dead, 
and  the  body  of  the  prophet  fell  out  of  the  window  on  to 
the  ground. 

"  Most  of  the  Mormons  moved  away  in  the  next  few 
months  and  the  last  of  them  skedaddled  in  1847.  That 
left  a  big  city  of  buildings  and  only  a  handful  of  people, 
and  the  Mormons  got  little  or  nothing  for  their  property. 
The  flat  down  here  was  all  built  over,  houses  behind 
houses  about  as  thick  as  they  could  stand.  A  good 
share  of  'em  was  of  logs  and  dry  to  the  core,  and  when 
a  man  bought  a  place  down  there  he'd  pick  out  the  best 
house  on  it  to  live  in  and  use  pretty  near  all  the  rest  of 
the  buildings  for  firewood.  So  the  city  disappeared, 
and  it  wa'n't  long  before  some  man  whose  wife  had  been 
coaxed  off  by  the  Mormons  burned  the  big  temple  out 


OF  THE 

|    bJNIVERSiTY  f 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  195 

of  revenge.  He  never  was  punished  for  it,  and  no  one 
knew  rightly  who  done  it  until  he  confessed  on  his 
death-bed." 

Another  queer  phase  of  the  town's  history  began, 
soon  after  the  Mormons  departed,  in  the  form  of  an 
attempt  to  establish  a  Utopia  at  Nauvoo.  A  member 
of  this  Utopian  community  told  me  its  history.  "We 
called  ourselves  Icarians,"  said  he,  "and  the  plan  was 
to  work  one  for  all  and  all  for  one.  As  the  words  of  our 
golden  rule  put  it,  'From  each  according  to  his  powers; 
to  each  according  to  his  needs/  It  was  a  beautiful 
idea;  but  you  know  the  story  of  Icarus.  He  made 
himself  wings  and  fastened  them  on  with  wax.  They 
carried  him  wherever  he  wished  to  go,  until  one  time 
he  flew  too  near  the  sun  and  the  wax  melted.  Then 
down  he  come,  and  we  done  the  same  thing.  Our 
leader  was  Etienne  Cabet,  a  great  French  lawyer, 
writer,  and  politician.  He  was  well  educated  and  had 
most  rosy  prospects ;  but  he  wanted  to  reform  the  world 
and  he  sacrificed  everything  for  that.  He  begun  with 
writing  a  novel  called,  'A  Voyage  in  Icarie/  describing 
an  ideal  nation.  The  book  was  a  great  success,  and  the 
people  in  France  were  enthusiastic  over  it — yes,  crazy 
over  it  —  and  they  wanted  to  see  such  an  attractive 
state  of  things  as  was  pictured  in  the  novel  realized. 

"So  Cabet  began  organizing,  and  soon  no  less  than 
four  hundred  thousand  persons  had  signed  themselves 
his  followers.  Then  he  made  the  proposal  to  build  up 


196     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

an  actual  Icaria  in  America,  and  the  idea  swept  France 
like  wildfire.  Shortly,  he  had  secured  land  in  Texas, 
and  sixty-nine  men  of  his  Paris  disciples  volunteered  to 
go  there.  They  left  their  families  and  voyaged  to  the 
new  country.  The  land  Cabet  had  bought  they  sup- 
posed was  easily  accessible;  but  it  proved  to  be  un- 
broken prairie,  which  they  only  reached  after  a  terrible 
overland  march  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  They 
were  loaded  down  with  absurd  and  useless  baggage, 
not  one  of  them  could  speak  English,  and  they  were 
artisans  or  professional  men  who  knew  nothing  of 
farming  and  pioneer  life.  They  stayed  through  the 
summer,  but  eighteen  died  of  malaria  and  the  rest  were 
so  disheartened  that  they  started  back  for  France. 

"They  got  as  far  as  the  Red  River  and  there  met  a 
new  lot  of  recruits,  and  the  whole  party  went  to  New 
Orleans  and  spent  the  winter.  A  committee  was  sent 
up  the  Mississippi  to  seek  a  more  favorable  locality  than 
the  one  abandoned  in  Texas.  This  committee  reported 
enthusiastically  on  Nauvoo,  and  in  March,  1849,  Cabet 
himself  with  three  hundred  men,  women,  and  children 
came  here  and  established  homes.  We  fixed  over  old 
buildings  and  put  up  new,  and  we  had  gardens  and 
shops  of  various  kinds,  and  after  a  while  we  built  a 
distillery  and  manufactured  whiskey.  That  was  against 
our  principles;  but  we  needed  the  money.  Every  one 
had  something  to  do,  and  yet  no  one  was  to  over-exert 
himself.  It  was  Cabet's  idea  to  make  labor  pleasant, 


MAKING  A  WILLOW  WHISTLE 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  197 

and  he  done  it;  but  he  didn't  make  us  prosperous,  and 
while  a  great  many  joined,  a  great  many  left,  too^ 
The  largest  number  we  had  in  the  colony  at  one  time 
was  about  six  hundred.  Some  of  those  who  joined 
had  the  sense  to  get  out  after  being  with  us  only  a 
short  time,  and  seeing  the  scheme  was  not  practical. 
Often  a  woman  would  induce  her  husband  to  leave 
because  we  had  to  be  very  economical,  and  she'd  been 
used  to  better  things.  Then,  again,  we  had  everything 
in  common,  and  a  man  who  was  pretty  smart  and  knew 
he  could  make  money  faster' n  most  of  the  others,  didn't 
like  to  be  pinned  down  to  an  equal  share,  and  so  he'd 
cut  loose. 

"Cabet  thought  we  should  be  such  a  happy  family 
and  give  the  world  such  a  beautiful  example  of  working 
for  each  other  that  every  one  would  flock  to  join.  But 
he  didn't  know  human  nature;  and  though  the  new- 
comers brought  money,  and  money  was  sent  us  by 
people  in  France,  we  was  always  hard  up,  and  that  sort 
of  thing  didn't  attract  the  public  to  become  Icarians. 
Cabet  was  a  splendid  talker,  and  it  was  delightful  to 
listen  to  his  Sunday  lectures.  He  was  admirable  in 
many  ways ;  still,  there  began  to  be  a  lot  of  disagreeing 
and  criticising  among  his  followers.  He  was  a  lawyer 
by  trade,  and  he  made  so  many  laws  an  opposition 
sprung  up  that  at  last  succeeded  in  outvoting  him  and 
putting  in  a  new  man  as  president.  Then  Cabet's 
partisans  refused  to  work,  and  the  new  president  re- 


198     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

fused  to  feed  them,  and  the  colony  broke  up  in  a  row. 
That  was  in  1856.  Cabet  went  down  near  St.  Louis, 
and  in  December  of  that  year  he  was  found  one  morn- 
ing frozen  in  his  bed." 

Thus  both  the  Mormon  and  the  Icarian  colonies  had 
a  depressing  experience  in  Nauvoo,  and  the  tragic  death 
of  their  leaders  nearly  coincided  in  each  instance  with 
the  end  of  their  followers'  occupancy.  However,  when 
the  Mormons  abandoned  the  place  their  ranks  were 
not  broken,  and  they  started  on  a  long  pilgrimage 
across  the  wilderness  to  Utah. 

"Yes,"  said  one  of  the  local  dwellers  to  me,  "the 
Mormons  was  obliged  to  skin  out  from  here,  and  if  you 
want  to  know  how  they  went  you  call  on  Granny 
Howard.  She  lives  with  her  son  —  and  he  has  a  loom 
in  the  house  and  weaves  rag  carpets.  She's  over  ninety 
years  old;  but  she  does  her  own  work,  and  in  her  spare 
time  she  sets  and  sews  carpet  rags,  and  she  don't  wear 
any  glasses  either." 

I  found  Granny  Howard  just  as  described  "At  the 
time  the  Mormons  left  here,"  said  she,  "we  was  livin'  in 
lowy  on  a  main  road  leadin'  westward.  Some  of  the 
Mormons'  wagons  was  drawn  by  mules,  some  by  oxen, 
some  by  cows,  and  the  poorest  people  pushed  along 
little  carts  by  hand.  They  went  past  thataway  for  weeks 
the  whole  summer  through  and  into  col'  weather. 
My  heart  ached  for  'em.  But  they  was  a  jolly  set,  I 
tell  you.  They  was  jis'  as  cheery  as  if  nothin'  hadn't 


The  Place  of  a  Vanished  City  199 

happened.  I  went  to  one  of  their  Sunday  meetin's  by 
the  roadside,  and  oh,  sich  pretty  singin'  I  never  heard 
in  my  life  !  I  remember  one  ole  woman  stopped  at  our 
house  an'  asked  my  mother  if  she  wa'n't  afraid  of  'em. 

l< Bless  your  ole  soul,'  my  mother  says,  'I  ain't  done 
you  folks  no  harm,  and  I  reckon  you  won't  do  me  any.' 

"No,'  the  ole  woman  says,  'we  won't  harm  a  hair  of 
your  head;'  and  they  didn't.  We  never  lost  so  much 


as  a  straw." 


The  grayhaired  son  had  stopped  the  clatter  of  his 
loom  in  the  next  room  and  now  stood  in  the  doorway. 
"I  was  in  the  Civil  War,"  said  he,  "and  I've  been  all 
aroun,'  and  the  Mormons  was  as  nice  people  as  I  was 
ever  among.  That  there  temple  they  had  here  was  a 
fine  thing,  and  I  believe,  by  golly,  they'll  come  back  to 
Nauvoo  some  day." 

He,  like  many  others  of  the  citizens,  was  an  admirer 
of  the  local  attractions  of  the  town — its  fertile  lands 
and  its  overlook  on  the  long  loop  of  the  river;  and  they 
are  all  quite  certain  no  spot  in  the  whole  valley  is  so 
beautiful  or  better  suited  for  the  site  of  a  great  city. 
They  are  sorry  the  Mormons  were  driven  out;  for  when 
they  left,  the  place  was  larger  than  Chicago,  and  there 
was  every  prospect  of  its  growing  to  be  one  of  the 
biggest  and  most  important  towns  in  the  nation. 

As  to  the  Mormons,  they  suffered  much,  and  their 
prophet  came  to  a  melancholy  end  which  at  the  time 
seemed  a  culminating  disaster;  and  yet  his  death  and 


2OO     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

the  other  Mormon  fatalities  proved  to  be  a  fortunate 
thing  for  the  system  he  founded.  The  church  now  had 
its  martyrs,  and  a  halo  of  glory  enshrined  their  memories. 
The  methods  of  their  assailants  had  been  unreasonable 
and  lawless.  Nevertheless,  the  underlying  cause  of  the 
persecution  had  a  certain  justice  in  it.  The  Mormon 
population  was  an  unmanageable  factor  in  political 
affairs.  The  vote  was  sure  to  be  a  unit,  and  the  cen- 
tralized power  of  the  organization  was  a  dangerous 
element  in  the  state.  Seemingly  the  mob  struck  at  the 
Mormon's  liberty  of  conscience,  but  really  the  chief 
thing  hated  and  feared  was  his  lack  of  liberty  of  action. 
The  effect  of  the  persecution,  however,  was  to  make 
the  Mormons  tenfold  more  Morman  than  before.  It 
only  added  to  their  fanatical  enthusiasm.  A  man  will 
think  twice  about  inconveniencing  himself  for  his  re- 
ligion, he  will  hesitate  to  make  himself  poor  for  it;  but 
show  him  that  another  man  stands  ready  to  slay  him 
for  adhering  to  it,  and  he  is  instantly  prepared  to  do 
battle,  not  so  much  for  the  religion  as  for  his  right  to 
believe  in  it  if  he  chooses. 

NOTE.  —  Nauvoo  has  the  charm  of  an  historic  and  exciting  past.  It 
has  a  beautiful  and  impressive  situation,  much  survives  to  remind  one 
of  the  Mormon  days,  and  few  places  in  America  are  more  moving  to 
the  imagination.  It  is  a  little  off  the  beaten  path  of  travel,  but  that  is 
only  a  matter  of  being  across  the  river  from  the  railroad,  which  helps 
to  keep  it  unchanged  and  preserves  the  charm.  The  tourist  who  fails  to 
see  it  misses  much. 


XI 

FARM   LIFE   IN   IOWA 

I  SUPPOSE  if  any  state  in  the  Union  was  to  be 
picked  out  as  preeminently  a  paradise  of  the 
farmer,  that  state  would  be  Iowa.  Nearly  every 
acre  of  it  can  be  cultivated,  and  repays  generously  the 
labor  bestowed,  the  climate  is  kindly  yet  bracing,  and 
access  to  markets  is  phenominally  easy.  "You  can't 
find  a  place  in  the  state/'  one  man  said  to  me,  "that's 
beyond  the  hearin'  of  the  railroad  whistles.  All  our 
county-seats  have  at  least  one  railroad  runnin'  through 
'em,  and  most  of  'em  two  or  three.  A  man  can  work 
to  advantage  in  Iowa  anywhere.  There's  no  more 
cheap  lands  to  be  had,  and  all  the  farm  country  in  the 
state  could  be  sold  at  an  average  of  seventy-five  dollars 


an  acre." 


My  own  observations  bore  out  this  man's  claims. 
One  seldom  sees  land  that  is  rocky  and  thin-soiled,  or 
any  boggy  hollows  but  that  can  be  readily  reclaimed. 
Nature  smiles  on  the  husbandman,  and  it  is  a  pleasure 
simply  to  look  on  the  great  fields  that  sweep  away  in 
gentle  undulation  to  the  horizon.  There  are  no  abso- 
lute levels,  neither  are  there  any  abrupt  hills;  but  the 

201 


2O2     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

landscape  rises  and  falls  like  the  big  smooth  swells  of 
the  ocean  after  a  storm.  From  the  top  of  the  swells 
you  are  especially  impressed  with  the  marvellous  extent 
of  beautiful  fertility  about  you.  Even  the  skies  seem 
more  vast  than  you  have  ever  known  them  in  the  East. 
Most  of  the  land  is  cultivated,  yet  there  is  much  pas- 
turage where  numerous  cattle,  horses,  sheep,  and  hogs 
graze,  and  there  are  frequent  streaks  and  patches  of 
trees.  Sheltered  homes  are  scattered  broadcast  over 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  thrift  and  plenty  seem  to  be 
universal. 

On  my  first  day  in  Iowa  I  left  the  railroad  and  went 
for  a  ramble  out  into  the  farming  country.  The 
weather  was  mild  and  sunny,  and  the  air  so  still  I  could 
hear  all  the  sounds  for  miles  around  —  the  whinny  of 
horses,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  clear  call  of  the  bob- 
whites,  and  the  mellow  sighing  of  the  turtle-doves. 
The  turf  was  sprinkled  with  dandelion  gold,  and  the 
butterflies  were  flitting  about  enjoying  the  heat  that 
shimmered  over  the  fields.  When  I  crossed  a  creek  and 
stopped  on  the  bridge  to  look  down  into  the  stream,  I 
caught  the  gleam  of  silvery  scales  as  the  fish  gambolled 
in  the  water;  and  now  and  then  a  fish  would  come  up 
to  the  surface  with  a  sudden  flip  that  would  start  a 
circle  of  ripples. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I  called  at  a  farmhouse,  and  I 
made  arrangements  to  stay  as  long  as  I  lingered  in  the 
region.  My  hosts  were  Americans  of  the  best  type  — 


Farm  Life  in  Iowa  203 

intelligent  and  prosperous,  yet  living  simply  and  work- 
ing hard.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  to  them  that  they 
owned  a  piano,  for  the  neighbors  had  only  organs. 

But  the  thing  in  the  house  which  gave  them  the  most 
real  satisfaction  was  a  telephone.  This  connected 
them  with  nearly  all  the  farm  dwellers  in  the  region  and 
also  with  the  town.  The  telephone  line  was  a  local 
enterprise,  and  the  cost  of  maintenance  was  only  two 
or  three  dollars  a  year.  They  used  it  constantly  both 
for  business  and  for  pleasure.  It  saved  time  and 
money  and  it  did  away  largely  with  the  isolation  which 
before  had  been  characteristic  of  farm  life;  for  homes 
were  rarely  close  enough  to  each  other  so  that  families 
could  fraternize  freely,  even  if  those  who  lived  next  each 
other  were  particularly  friendly.  The  telephone  was 
the  more  important  to  my  hosts  because  they  were  not 
on  the  main  highway,  and  their  road  was  enlivened  by 
few  passers.  They  always  looked  out  when  any  one 
did  go  by  and  made  a  guess  at  the  person's  probable 
business,  and  if  they  did  not  happen  to  know  the  person 
would  remark,  "Well,  who  in  creation  is  that?" 

Besides  annihilating  distance  so  that  the  members  of 
each  family  could  visit  with  whom  they  pleased,  it 
enabled  them  to  listen  when  others  visited.  The  rules 
did  not  countenance  this,  however,  as  the  daughter  of 
the  house  at  my  lodging-place  said,  "'Tisn't  often  any 
one  finds  fault  about  your  listening,  because  they  do 
it  theirselves,  too." 


204     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

So  if  she  was  not  especially  busy  when  the  telephone 
bell  rang  up  a  neighbor,  she  took  off  the  receiver  and 
held  it  to  her  ear  a  longer  or  a  shorter  time,  according 
as  the  conversation  proved  entertaining  or  otherwise. 

The  surroundings  of  the  house  did  not  show  much 
thought  for  appearances,  and  the  shaggy  lawn  and  few 
shrubs  and  trees  got  little  care.  At  the  back  of  the 
house  were  the  barns,  corncribs,  and  other  buildings, 
quite  a  collection  in  all  and  scattered  over  considerable 
ground.  Near  the  barns  were  a  miry  hog  enclosure,  a 
cow  yard,  and  a  calf  pasture.  The  cattle  were  allowed 
to  run  free  the  winter  through;  yet  they  have  a  shed 
closed  in  on  the  windward  side  for  their  protection  and 
are  fed  regularly  with  hay  and  with  corn  on  the  cob. 
The  hay  is  stacked  outdoors,  except  what  is  needed  for 
the  horses;  and  from  the  stack  a  load  is  taken  daily 
in  cold  weather  to  a  rack  in  the  pasture  for  the  cattle. 
A  windmill  pump  keeps  the  farmyard  supplied  with 
water.  Every  farm  has  to  have  its  windmill,  and  you 
see  the  slender  iron  frameworks  sticking  up  all  over  the 
country. 

The  farms  vary  a  good  deal  in  size.  Some  have  only 
forty  acres,  others  eighty;  but  one  hundred  and  sixty 
is  the  usual  size.  Many  of  the  farmers  have,  however, 
added  to  their  original  holdings  and  own  three  or  four 
hundred  acres,  and  there  are  occasional  men  whose 
possessions  run  up  above  a  thousand.  In  fact,  farms  are 
fewer  than  twenty  years  ago,  and  you  find  frequent 


DITCHING 


Farm  Life  in  Iowa  205 

deserted  houses.  The  empty  dwellings  and  outbuild- 
ings are  nearly  always  ruinous.  They  were  probably 
not  very  substantial  in  the  first  place,  and  lack  of  care 
and  leaky  roofs  and  rough  winds  soon  bring  them  to 
earth.  But  the  protecting  rows  of  trees  that  grew  near 
may  remain  long  afterward  and  mark  the  old  home  site 
that  otherwise  has  been  absorbed  into  some  big  pasture 
or  cultivated  field. 

Quite  a  percentage  of  the  farms  are  rented.  The 
owners  have  acquired  a  competence,  and  on  account  of 
age  or  lack  of  health  have  moved  to  town.  They  re- 
ceive a  rental  of  from  three  to  five  dollars  an  acre;  but 
out  of  the  receipts  they  pay  taxes  and  also  attend  to 
repairs  on  the  buildings  and  fences.  The  returns  are 
therefore  not  very  great  on  the  amount  of  capital 
the  farm  represents;  but  the  owners  prefer  this  land 
investment  to  putting  the  money  into  a  savings 
bank,  because  they  have  greater  confidence  in  its 
safety. 

"  Most  of  the  people  who  have  been  here  any  length 
of  time  own  their  places,"  I  was  told;  "but  there's  a 
few  wouldn't  be  content  without  a  mortgage.  A  feller 
makin'  a  fresh  start  to  buy  a  place  has  hard  pulling. 
It  takes  a  good  deal  of  money  for  stock  and  machinery, 
and  with  land  so  much  higher  than  it  used  to  be  it  ain't 
easy  payin'.  Then,  it  seem  like  these  here  young  folks 
now  ain't  as  economical  as  the  people  used  to  be.  Soon 
as  a  young  feller  gets  a  little  money  nowadays  he  buys 


206     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

a  smart  buggy  and  a  horse.  He  wants  to  show  off  and 
so  he  don't  get  ahead." 

The  farm  country  is  divided  with  interminable  miles  of 
wire  fencing  into  lots  mostly  of  forty-acre  size.  The  people 
work  the  land  in  fields  of  that  extent  as  a  rule,  and  each 
field  is  devoted  to  one  staple.  They  have  no  fancy  for 
hand  labor,  use  machinery  almost  exclusively,  and  skip 
a  good  deal  of  detail  that  we  in  the  older  states  fancy  is 
essential.  Thus,  in  haying,  if  the  grass  is  thoroughly 
ripe  it  is  mowed  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon 
is  raked  up  and  stacked.  If  green,  it  is  allowed  to  lie 
until  the  next  day.  But  in  neither  case  is  the  grass 
teddered  or  touched  after  mowing  until  it  is  raked  up. 

Very  little  hoeing  is  done;  but  the  corn  gets  con- 
siderable cultivating  with  a  two-horse  machine,  on  which 
a  man  rides  day  after  day  back  and  forth  on  the  long 
rows.  If  the  hoe  is  employed  at  all  it  is  where  the  wild 
morning  glories  have  grown  so  thick  as  to  threaten  to 
choke  the  life  out  of  the  corn  with  their  entwining 
stems.  The  morning  glories  are  the  worst  weed  pest 
with  which  the  farmers  have  to  contend. 

A  troublesome  pest  of  another  sort  is  the  gopher. 
This  little  rodent  is  always  burrowing  in  the  grass 
fields  and  making  its  endless  series  of  dirt  heaps.  It 
throws  up  about  a  peck  of  pulverized  earth  in  each 
heap  from  its  underground  tunnel,  but  seldom  shows 
itself.  The  roots  of  the  clover  and  the  morning  glories 
are  its  favorite  foods.  It  is  also  fond  of  potatoes,  and 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


CHURNING  AT  THE   BACK   DOOR 


Farm  Life  in  Iowa  207 

when  a  man  makes  warfare  on  it  he  digs  down  and 
drops  a  poisoned  potato  in  the  creature's  burrows.  The 
gopher's  mounds  are  a  great  nuisance  in  the  grass  fields ; 
for  they  clog  the  mowing-machine  knife  and  often 
bring  the  machine  to  a  full  stop. 

The  majority  of  the  farmers  own  a  self-binding  har- 
vester, which  they  use  in  cutting  their  oats.  Forty  acres 
will  make  about  sixty  wagon  loads  or  ten  stacks.  These 
stacks  are  arranged  in  two  settings,  each  group  of  five 
stacks  forming  a  square  with  one  side  of  it  gone  so  that 
the  threshing  machine  can  be  placed  in  the  middle. 
Sometime  in  August  or  September  the  threshing  ma- 
chine comes  with  three  or  four  men  to  attend  it  and  a 
dozen  or  fifteen  of  the  neighbors  to  handle  the  bundles 
of  oats,  the  straw,  and  the  grain.  The  work  is  done  in 
a  day;  but  it  is  a  day  of  high  pressure.  There  is 
strenuousness  indoors  as  well  as  out,  for  dinner  and 
supper  have  to  be  provided  for  all  the  hungry  crowd, 
and  the  thresher  crew  has  to  be  kept  over  night.  It  is 
the  most  tumultuous  day  of  the  year;  but  its  spice  of 
excitement  lends  it  a  certain  attraction,  and  the.  work 
is  not  nearly  so  irksome  to  the  men  engaged  as  is  the 
more  solitary  and  sober  task  of  corn-husking  that  comes 
later. 

Most  of  the  corn  is  husked  in  the  field  from  the 
standing  stalks  into  wagons,  and  the  labor  continues 
in  the  chilly  late  autumn,  for  a  month  or  more. 
Often  the  last  load  is  not  in  until  about  Thanksgiving 


208     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

time.  The  weather  and  the  coarse,  sharp-edged  husks 
are  irritating  to  the  hands,  and  the  workers  are  usually 
obliged  to  wear  mittens. 

The  farm  people  get  up  during  the  busy  season  at 
about  five.  The  field  tasks  are  done  by  six  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  and  supper  is  served ;  but  afterward  there 
are  the  milking  and  other  odd  jobs  at  the  barn  and  sheds 
which  keep  the  workers  engaged  until  about  bedtime. 
In  the  winter  they  take  life  easier,  are  not  up  much 
before  seven,  and  indeed  only  care  to  be  stirring  early 
enough  to  get  the  children  ready  to  go  to  school.  There 
is  wood  to  cut,  oats  to  haul  to  market,  and  the  stock  to 
care  for;  but  work  does  not  crowd,  and  some  men  will 
frequently  drive  into  town  with  no  object  whatever,  and 
simply  "hang  around." 

Once  in  a  while  a  "sale"  lends  spice  to  the  farm  life. 
"The  sale  may  be  the  result  of  a  man's  gettin'  in  debt 
bad,"  I  was  informed,  "and  he  has  to  auction  off  his 
belongings  pretty  close  to  straighten  up;  but  usually 
it's  where  some  one  is  moving  away,  or  a  family  is 
broken  up  by  a  death.  They  have  the  sales  usually 
in  winter,  because  other  times  of  the  year  lots  of  us 
would  be  too  busy  to  go.  There's  bound  to  be  a  crowd 
if  the  weather  is  good.  The  thing  is  advertised  a 
week  or  two  beforehand  by  posters,  and  people  will 
come  to  it  from  a  distance  of  eight  or  ten  miles. 
I've  seen  more  than  five  hundred  men  at  a  single  sale. 
It's  an  all-day  affair,  and  at  noon  the  folks  that  are 


A  NOTICE  ON  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE  DOOR 


Farm  Life  in  Iowa  209 

selling  out  furnish  every  one  with  a  free  lunch  of 
bologny,  crackers,  coffee,  and  cheese." 

There  are  seldom  any  drones  in  the  farm  families, 
and  I  observed  that  the  housewives  by  no  means  con- 
fined themselves  to  indoor  duties.  One  day  I  stepped 
into  a  yard  where  a  sunbonneted  woman  was  sitting 
on  her  back  doorstep  turning  the  crank  of  a  barrel 
churn.  At  my  approach  operations  were  brought  to 
a  stop,  and  a  young  woman  came  to  the  door,  and  both 
she  and  the  churner  looked  at  me  to  see  what  I  had  to 
say  for  myself.  I  asked  about  the  churn,  and  the  woman 
explained  it  to  me  and  told  what  good  butter  she  made, 
and  then  said  with  a  motion  of  her  thumb  toward  the 
girl  in  the  doorway,  "  Her  and  I  do  the  milking.  I  don't 
like  to  eat  the  butter  when  the  men  milk.  They  have 
enough  work  without  that;  and  you  know  they  are 
around  the  horses  so  much  they  can't  keep  very  clean, 
and  they  chew  tobacco,  and  I  can't  help  thinkin'  they 
might  be  spittin*  and  get  their  tobacco  juice  in  the 
milk." 

A  good  many  women  in  the  vicinity  milked,  and  they 
very  often  helped  in  the  fields  during  the  busy  days 
of  haying  and  harvest.  Woman  frequently  drive  the 
binders,  put  the  oats  in  shocks,  and  some  of  them  do 
considerable  husking. 

On  one  of  my  rambles  I  stopped  at  the  local  school- 
house,  a  little  white  building  prettily  situated  on  a 
knoll  with  lofty  oak  and  elm  woods  close  behind  it. 


2io     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

A  grassy  forest  road  led  away  into  the  grove  and  fur- 
nished a  short  cut  for  the  children  who  lived  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hill.  Many  initials  were  carved  on 
the  casing  of  the  schoolhouse  door,  and  among  the  rest 
of  the  decorations  were  the  following  lines  which  some 
one  had  laboriously  written  with  a  pencil :  — 

When  a  tode  climes  up  a  tree 

pinch  his  tail  and  think  of  me, 

to  which  was  appended  in  a  different  handwriting  the 

remark :  — 

or  some  other  fool. 

The  room  inside  was  rather  attractive.  It  had  cur- 
tains at  the  windows  and  a  variety  of  pictures  pinned 
on  the  walls.  The  children  were  orderly,  attentive,  and 
bright.  As  is  usual,  the  teacher  was  without  special 
training  and  merely  a  graduate  of  some  village  high 
school.  Her  methods  were  old-fashioned  and  the 
pupils  recited  rather  stumblingly  and  parrot-like;  but 
they  were  getting  along  fairly  well,  nevertheless.  The 
boys  come  to  school  barefoot,  and  in  overalls.  That 
was  their  idea  of  comfort,  and  looks  didn't  count. 
They  abandon  shoes  as  early  in  the  spring  as  they  can 
induce  their  mothers  to  let  them,  and  the  shoes  are  sel- 
dom on  the  boys'  feet  again  until  the  autumn  days 
become  decidedly  frosty.  The  girls  were  dressed  quite 
spick  and  span,  and  judging  by  their  attire  you  would 
never  suspect  they  came  from  the  same  families  as  the 
boys. 


Farm  Life  in  Iowa  21 1 

Every  winter  there  was  an  entertainment  at  the  school- 
house  for  the  benefit  of  the  school  library.  This  was 
mostly  prepared  by  the  teacher  and  children,  and  was 
locally  the  chief  social  event  of  the  season.  But  as  a 
rule  the  people  when  they  felt  the  need  of  relaxation 
had  to  resort  to  the  town,  where  there  was  a  chance  to 
attend  occasional  lectures  and  concerts  and  now  and 
then  a  travelling  show. 

The  town  itself  was  little  more  than  a  rustic  village. 
I  was  there  over  Sunday.  An  unnatural  quiet  reigned 
from  the  earliest  dawn,  though  the  roosters  crowed 
from  coop  to  coop  and  the  birds  sang  as  usual.  But 
by  and  by  a  church  bell  began  jangling,  and  a  few  teams 
came  jogging  in  from  the  country  and  hitched  to  the 
fence  behind  the  Methodist  meeting-house,  and  strag- 
gling church-goers  emerged  from  the  homes  and  went 
clacking  along  the  board  walks.  I  followed  the  rest. 
The  service  was  of  the  usual  sort,  and  I  recall  nothing 
special  in  its  routine  except  that  the  minister  had  much 
to  say  of  members  who  were  in  a  "backslidden  state" 
and  played  cards,  danced,  and  went  to  the  theatre,  and 
that  he  also  complained  the  attendance  was  not  what  it 
should  be.  "You  farmers  have  got  good  comfortable 
buggies  and  carnages,"  he  said,  "and  yet  a  little  shower 
will  keep  you  at  home.  Years  ago  when  the  people  had 
nothing  to  come  in  but  their  heavy  farm  wagons  they 
were  all  here  every  Sunday." 

The  farm   folk  were  much    more  in  evidence  about 


212     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

the  village  on  the  day  following.  Their  teams  were 
coming  and  going  in  a  desultory  way  from  morn  till 
night.  Heavy  wagons  and  covered  buggies  drawn  by 
two  horses  were  the  rule.  No  one  was  in  a  hurry.  The 
men  had  time  to  loiter  in  front  of  the  stores,  where  they 
found  convenient  seats  amid  the  displays  of  farm  tools 
and  new  vehicles  resplendent  with  gaudy  paint.  The 
women,  too,  were  glad  to  meet  and  chat  leisurely  with 
friends.  Often  the  whole  family  came  to  trade  — 
father  and  mother  and  children  of  varying  ages,  from 
the  toddler  who  stepped  along  with  timid  caution  on 
the  unfamiliar  board  walk,  fearful  that  he  might  tumble 
off  or  get  caught  in  the  cracks,  to  the  bashful  youngsters 
a  few  years  older,  timid  also  from  consciousness  of  being 
in  the  metropolis,  but  with  eyes  wide  open  to  see  all  its 
wonders.  Then  there  were  the  boys  in  their  teens  — 
raw-looking  fellows  with  misfit  clothes  and  rough  hands 
and  tanned  faces.  Last,  but  not  least,  there  were  the 
little  girls  and  the  blooming  maidens. 

At  length  Mrs.  Farmer  finishes  her  shopping  and 
hunts  up  her  man.  "I'm  ready  to  go  right  now/'  he 
says,  and  they  pack  in  their  purchases  under  the  seats 
and  in  between  and  all  around  until  you  wonder  where 
the  members  of  the  family  are  going  to  bestow  them- 
selves. But  they  manage  to  squeeze  in  somehow,  and 
off  they  go  satisfied  and  happy,  with  the  wagon  springs 
sagging  to  the  bumping  point. 

That  evening  an  automobile  came  whizzing  into  town 


RENEWING  A  TOWN  WALK 


Farm  Life  in  Iowa  213 

and  stopped  in  the  village  centre.  There  were  three 
young  men  in  it.  They  stepped  into  one  of  the  stores, 
and  every  one  on  the  street  gathered  around  the  ma- 
chine, and  told  each  other  what  they  thought  about  it. 
The  three  young  men  presently  appeared,  lit  their 
cigars,  turned  up  their  coat  collars,  and  prepared  to 
resume  their  journey;  but  the  machine  refused  to 
budge.  They  investigated  and  tried  this  method  and 
that  to  coax  it  into  motion;  yet  there  it  stuck.  The 
crowd  grew  and  was  quite  fascinated  with  the  per- 
formance. 

"I  ain't  never  seen  this  auto  out  of  whack  before," 
said  a  man  next  to  me. 

"Where  does  it  come  from  ?"   I  asked. 

"It  belongs  to  two  of  these  fellers,"  was  the  reply. 
"They  live  in  the  next  town  north  and  often  pass 
through  here;  but  they  usually  go  just  a-bilin'  and 
don't  stop." 

"They  stopped  that  time  they  scat  Sarah  Colton's 
horse,"  remarked  another  man  who  was  listening. 

"Why,  yes,  they  did.  You  see  her  horse  was  hitched 
on  the  street  here,  and  when  the  auto  turned  the  corner 
the  horse  seemed  to  think  Satan  himself  was  comin', 
and  it  broke  away  and  went  off  with  heels  a-flyin'. 
These  fellers  left  their  machine  and  give  chase.  The 
horse  was  too  old  to  be  much  of  a  racer,  and  some  one 
stopped  it  and  the  fellers  brought  it  back  and  had  the 
harness  patched  up,  and  settled  with  Sarah  for  the 


214     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

damages,  and  went  on.  Their  father  used  to  have  a 
clothing  store,  and  he  made  money.  Now  they're 
spendin'  what  the  old  man  saved.  They  won't  get 
no  more  from  him.  The  old  man  has  made  his  windup, 
you  know.  He's  under  the  sod." 

But  now  the  refractory  machine  had  been  induced 
to  start  and  went  whirling  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and 
the  village  resumed  its  normal  quiet. 

NOTE. — In  Iowa  beautiful  farming  country  is  almost  universal,  and 
if  you  would  have  a  close  acquaintance  with  it,  stop  off  the  train  wher- 
ever you  please  and  set  out  for  a  walk  or  drive.  Any  fair-sized  town 
is  very  sure  to  have  a  good  hotel,  but  accommodations  among  the  farms 
is  not  always  to  be  found.  The  better  class  of  families  are  too  pros- 
perous and  too  busy  to  care  to  take  in  a  traveller.  So  the  safe  and 
comfortable  way  is  to  get  lodgings  in  some  town  and  make  short  trips 
from  there  out  into  the  region  surrounding. 


XII 

ON   THE    MINNESOTA   PRAIRIES 

I  WAS  at  Dobbsdale,  a  country  village  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  state.  It  was  just  after 
breakfast  and  I  had  sat  down  in  the  office  of 
the  town's  one  hotel  with  the  intention  of  starting  out 
for  a  ramble,  presently.  The  room  was  rather  dubi- 
ously odorous  of  more  or  less  ancient  tobacco  fumes; 
but  that  is  to  be  expected  in  the  average  hotel.  The 
big  stove  was  flanked  on  either  side  by  a  spittoon  box 
—  a  shallow  wooden  affair  with  the  bottom  sprinkled 
with  dirt,  and  the  dirt  sprinkled  with  burnt  matches, 
cigar  stubs,  old  quids,  and  other  filth.  The  hotel  was 
a  clumsy  two-story  wooden  building  only  separated 
from  the  street  by  a  board  walk.  Several  hitching 
posts  bordered  the  walk  and  also  a  stout  plank, 
which  had  been  adjusted  to  serve  for  a  seat  when 
weather  and  inclination  favored  such  use.  There 
were  board  walks  all  through  the  village,  though 
many  pieces  were  shattered  or  missing.  In  the  village 
centre  was  the  usual  straggling  cluster  of  low  stores, 
some  of  them  brick,  some  wooden;  but  what  was 
especially  distinctive  about  the  place  was  its  abundance 

215 


2i6     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

of  trees.  Every  street  was  lined  with  them,  and  there 
were  many  others  in  yards  and  along  boundaries. 
They  were  well  grown,  and  made  the  town  a  kind  of 
human  bird's  nest,  with  an  aspect  charmingly  peaceful 
and  shadowy. 

The  region  had  been  settled  within  the  memory  of 
persons  still  living,  and  Mr.  Dobbs,  the  ancestor  of  the 
town,  was  not  only  alive,  but  hale  and  hearty  and  good 
for  many  years  yet.  He  was  the  town's  chief  citizen, 
just  as  he  had  been  from  the  first.  It  seemed  odd  that 
he  should  have  called  the  place  Dobbs's  dale ;  for  there 
was  no  dale,  and  the  country  about  was  almost  as  level 
as  it  possibly  could  be.  But  I  suppose  dale  appealed 
to  his  fancy.  He  evidently  had  a  touch  of  poetry  in  his 
nature,  as  it  was  due  to  his  hobby  that  the  hamlet  was 
so  well  wooded.  He  began  planting  trees  when  he  first 
came,  and  had  never  ceased  planting  them  since. 

"The  way  I  happened  to  settle  in  this  country,"  said 
he,  "ware  that  my  father  fit  in  the  War  of  1812,  and  he 
got  a  warrant  from  the  government  for  a  quarter  section 
of  land.  So  my  brother  and  I  come  here  in  1856  and 
brought  a  sawmill  and  got  out  timber  and  built  us  a 
house. 

"Game  ware  very  plentiful  —  thousands  of  prairie 
chickens  and  partridges  and  abundance  of  mink  and 
deer.  The  streams  ware  full  of  pickerel,  pike,  and  bass, 
and  at  first  we  just  about  lived  on  fish  and  what  we  shot. 
There  was  lots  of  beaver  in  the  cricks,  and  the  dams 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  217 

they  made  with  their  mud  and  moss  was  wonderful. 
I've  seen  popple  trees  a  foot  through  they'd  gnawed 
off.  The  popple  ware  the  tree  they  seemed  to  like  bestT; 
but  they  cut  down  willow  and  soft  maple  some  too. 

"There's  game  around  here  still;  but  it's  been  a 
good  many  years  since  I've  had  a  first-class  hunt.  The 
last  ware  when  a  cousin  of  mine  ware  visitin'  me. 
He  'n*  his  wife  and  me  'n'  my  wife  hitched  into  a  double 
express  wagon  and  took  our  dinners  and  went  after 
prairie  chickens.  It  ware  about  the  first  of  August. 
The  young  chickens  are  two-thirds  grown  then  and 
are  as  nice  eatin'  as  anythin'  you  could  ask.  We  went 
out  on  the  prairie,  and  then  my  cousin  and  I  took  our 
guns  and  commenced  to  walk.  The  ladies  drove  the 
team  and  follered  us,  and  they'd  keep  track  of  where  a 
covey  lit.  We  had  some  good  dogs,  and  we  bagged  a 
hundred  and  twenty  chickens  that  day. 

"When  I  settled  here  there  was  just  one  man  in  this 
region,  and  he  had  a  cabin  in  the  timber  by  the  crick. 
But  the  emigrants  ware  arrivin'  all  the  summer,  and  by 
winter  we  had  a  dozen  families  right  around. 

"  Every  spring  and  fall  the  Indians  used  to  come  here 
and  stay  a  couple  of  weeks  hunting  and  fishing.  We 
never  had  no  trouble  with  'em  until  1862.  Then  they 
made  war,  and  for  two  hundred  miles  of  the  frontier 
they  fell  on  the  whites,  and  in  thirty-six  hours  had 
killed  nearly  a  thousand  and  took  hundreds  of  prison- 
ers. I  don't  know  how  the  trouble  began.  Some  say 


2i 8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

a  party  of  Indians  got  drunk  and  murdered  a  man  who 
refused  to  give  'em  more  whiskey,  and  that  then  they 
fled  to  their  encampment,  and  the  rest  of  the  Indians 
decided  to  protect  them.  So  they  all  went  and  started 
a  massacree.  Others  say  the  Indians  didn't  get  their 
rights  from  the  government  and  ware  neglected  and 
ware  paid  their  annuities  in  greenbacks  instead  of  in 
gold  or  silver  as  had  been  the  habit. 

"Anyhow  the  Indians  commenced  to  burn  houses 
and  to  kill  as  many  whites  as  they  could.  The  people 
flocked  here  from  a  hundred  miles  back,  and  when  the 
first  refugees  come  I  can  tell  you  things  did  look  scarry. 
We  got  ready  every  gun  and  all  the  ammunition  in  the 
place,  and  posted  pickets.  Some  expected  the  Indians 
ware  right  behind  follerin'  of  'em.  However,  they 
didn't  show  up  that  night,  and  we  didn't  really  know 
what  they  ware  doin'  of.  So  the  next  day  we  sent  out 
scouts.  They  found  the  Indians  had  gone,  and  they 
haven't  disturbed  us  in  our  part  of  the  state  since." 

These  reminiscences  were  related  to  me  by  Mr. 
Dobbs  one  afternoon  while  we  sat  in  the  shade  of  the 
trees  on  the  plank  bench  in  front  of  the  hotel.  The  sun 
shone  clear  and  hot  on  the  dusty  street.  Three  or  four 
teams  were  hitched  to  posts  and  telegraph  poles,  and 
the  horses  stood  half  asleep  patiently  waiting  for  their 
masters.  On  the  shadowed  side  of  the  street  were  a 
few  men  sitting  on  the  stone  steps  or  window  ledges 
talking  together  or  reading  papers.  On  the  sunny  side 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  219 

the  store  curtains  were  pulled  down  to  shut  out  the  heat 
and  glare.  Business  seemed  to  have  come  to  a  stand- 
still, and  in  the  depths  of  the  leading  grocery  store  T 
could  hear  the  proprietor  tooting  on  a  cornet  with 
amazing  persistency. 

None  of  the  stores  had  signs,  and  I  was  informed 
that  some  stores  had  only  been  in  business  a  few 
months  and  it  was  not  time  to  expect  them  to  get  up 
signs;  while  the  older  ones  were  well  known  to  every- 
body, and  where  was  the  need  of  their  having  signs  ? 

On  a  corner  across  the  way  from  the  hotel  was  a  one- 
man  bank.  When  the  village  mail  arrived  the  banker 
locked  up  while  he  leisurely  visited  the  post-office. 
Next  to  the  bank  was  what  seemed  to  be  a  one-man 
store,  and  its  proprietor,  like  the  banker,  went  to  the 
post-office;  but  he  left  his  door  wide  open.  He  was 
a  tall,  round-shouldered  man,  with  a  leathery  face  and 
a  brush  of  chin  whiskers.  His  hat  was  a  squatty  derby 
of  antique  style,  and  his  scant-lengthed  trousers  were 
patched  on  the  seat.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  had 
his  thumbs  thrust  into  the  armholes  of  his  vest  with  an 
air  of  self-satisfied  independence.  In  his  window,  amid 
a  dubious  array  of  merchandise,  was  a  fly-specked  card 
on  which  was  stencilled  the  words 

GOODS    SOLD    AT    COST 

I  made  inquiry  about  this  sign  and  about  his  business. 
"  He's  an  old-timer,"  I  was  told.  "  He  was  here  before 


220     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

the  flood,  and  he's  been  sellin'  goods  'at  cost*  and 
makin'  money  ever  since.  He  does  most  of  his  work 
himself,  though  he  has  a  boy  around  to  help  when  he 
can  find  him;  but  that's  not  often." 

In  the  evening  things  grew  busier,  and  now  and  then 
a  buggy  would  arrive  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  street 
grew  quite  populous  with  teams  and  loitering  people. 
Some  trading  was  done,  but  more  visiting.  The  men 
gathered  in  groups  on  the  dim-lit  walks  before  the  stores 
and  swore  amiably  at  each  other,  as  they  chatted,  by 
the  hour  together. 

In  what  I  saw  of  the  region  on  my  walks  out  into  the 
surrounding  country  its  aspect  varied  little.  Which- 
ever way  I  went  I  found  smooth,  straight  dirt  roads, 
and  land  flowing  along  endlessly  with  a  hardly  per- 
ceptible rise  and  fall.  The  staple  crops  raised  in  the 
great  fields  were  corn,  oats,  and  barley.  Some  wheat 
was  grown;  but  the  soil  did  not  sustain  it  as  well  as 
formerly  and  it  seldom  does  really  well.  Flax-growing, 
too,  has  been  gradually  abandoned  for  the  same  reason. 

The  farm  dwellings  were  always  among  trees  — 
often  in  one  of  the  natural  oak  woods,  or  on  the  edge 
of  it;  but  more  commonly  in  the  midst  of  a  planted 
square  of  poplars,  willows,  and  maples  that  enclosed 
all  the  buildings  and  the  garden.  Every  man  apparently 
aspired  to  have  a  big  red  barn  with  a  gambrel  roof  and  a 
cupola  on  top.  There  were  pretty  sure  to  be  flowers 
and  shrubbery  near  the  house;  but  in  the  remoter  por- 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  FASCINATION  OF  THE  STREAM 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  221 

tions  of  the  yard  was  much  litter,  including  a  wood- 
pile, wagons,  tools,  worn-out  machinery,  and  some 
more  or  less  depleted  straw  stacks.  The  dwellings 
as  a  whole  had  a  pleasing  look  of  prosperity  and 
comfort. 

The  tillers  of  the  soil  are  of  many  nationalities,  and 
they  show  a  strong  tendency  to  gather  in  racial  settle- 
ments. Thus,  in  one  vicinity  you  will  find  all  Ger- 
mans, in  another  all  Norse,  and  so  on.  If  settlers  of 
a  particular  race  are  at  all  numerous  in  a  district  they 
have  their  own  church  and  church  school,  and  in  the 
school  the  text-books  are  mostly  in  the  native  language, 
though  enough  English  is  imparted  to  enable  the  chil- 
dren to  speak  and  read  it  intelligently. 

I  stopped  at  a  German  home  one  noon  for  dinner. 
We  ate  in  the  hot,  smudgy  little  kitchen  close  to  the 
stove.  There  were  three  children  in  the  family,  two 
of  them  boys,  and  the  other  a  tall  attractive  girl,  who 
waited  on  the  table  —  probably  because  there  was  not 
room  for  her  to  sit  with  the  rest.  We  had  fried  ham, 
bread  and  butter,  coffee  and  cake.  German  was  the 
ordinary  language  of  the  household,  and  before  we 
began  to  eat,  each  of  the  boys  asked  a  blessing  in  that 
language.  Dinner  for  the  youngsters  consisted  mostly 
of  bread  plentifully  bespread  with  molasses.  Every 
time  a  lad  finished  pouring  from  the  molasses  pitcher 
he  gave  the  nose  of  it  a  swipe  with  his  tongue  to  prevent 
its  dripping. 


222     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

I  asked  the  man  if  the  Minnesota  country  suited  him 
as  well  as  his  native  Europe. 

"Gosh,  yes!"  was  the  response;  "but  my  woman 
complains  about  the  cold  long  winter.  It's  a  little 
bit  too  long.  When  I  come  twenty-seven  years  ago 
the  land  around  here  was  owned  by  one  man.  He'd 
got  a  whole  section,  by  golly,  as  a  speculation.  The 
land  he  sold  me  was  covered  with  scrubby  bushes 
and  was  so  wet  you  couldn't  walk  anywhere  with- 
out gettin'  your  boots  or  shoes  filled  with  water. 
But  cultivation  and  ditches  has  dried  it  off.  About 
ten  years  ago  I  built  this  house  and  a  new  barn. 
I  wa'n't  goin'  to  live  in  an  old  shack  all  my  life.  I 
had  to  go  in  debt  some,  and  that's  the  case  with 
nearly  all  when  they  build;  but  most  are  gradually 
payin'." 

After  dinner  we  sat  for  a  while  in  the  parlor,  which 
was  impressively  neat  as  the  result  of  a  recent  house- 
cleaning.  The  gay  rag  carpet  had  just  been  put  back 
on  the  floor,  and  there  was  straw  beneath  it  which  made 
it  puff  up  like  a  cushion;  but  it  would  tread  down  flat 
in  time. 

"Do  you  think  the  government'll  continue  this  rural 
delivery  that  they  been  extendin'  everywhere  ?"  queried 
my  host ;  and  he  also  wanted  to  know  if  the  cost  of  the 
service  fell  on  the  farmers.  "Some  people  here  say  it 
ain't  a  good  thing,"  he  continued.  "They  claim  the 
expense  is  more'n  it's  worth.  I  ain't  talkin'  much 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  223 

myself,  because  my  son-in-law  runs  the  mail  car,  and  I 
don't  want  him  to  lose  his  job." 

Views  as  to  the  farm  prosperity  of  the  region  differed 
widely.  I  had  a  chat  with  one  man  planting  corn 
in  a  wayside  field  whose  comments  were  decidedly 
pessimistic.  "I  bought  my  land  in  this  blamed  coun- 
try when  land  was  cheap,"  he  said;  "and  yet  it's  been 
mighty  hard  work  to  pay  for  it.  I  don't  know  as  I 
could  have  paid  if  I  hadn't  had  money  come  to  me  from 
elsewhere.  You  see  when  a  feller  borrowed  fifteen  years 
ago  he  had  to  pay  ten  per  cent  interest.  Now  you  get 
lower  interest,  but  the  price  of  land  is  up  to  fifty  dollars 
or  more  an  acre.  Whoever  buys  at  such  a  price  will 
never  pay  any  of  the  principal  in  the  world. 

"  It's  them  Germans  up  north  of  the  town  who  have 
raised  the  price  of  land  here.  The  thing  happened  this 
way  —  some  German  in  Wisconsin  sold  out  sixty  acres 
he  had  there  for  one  hundred  dollars  an  acre.  That 
made  six  thousand  dollars,  and  he  come  here  lookin'  for 
another  farm.  Well,  he  struck  a  Yankee  man  up  north 
of  the  town  who  had  one  hundred  and  twenty  acres  and 
wanted  to  sell.  They  got  talkin'  same  as  you  and  me 
are  now,  and  the  German  offered  all  his  money  for  that 
farm  and  got  it.  After  sellin'  at  a  hundred  dollars  an 
acre,  fifty  dollars  an  acre  looked  cheap,  and  yet  the 
Yankee  had  offered  me  the  same  farm  the  week  before 
for  thirty-five  hundred  dollars.  Since  that  sale  no  one 
will  dispose  of  any  land  for  less  than  that  Wisconsin 


224     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

feller  paid.  He  made  a  mistake,  but  them  Germans 
are  good  thrifty  people  and  get  rich  if  any  one  can.  They 
keep  things  lookin'  nice  around  the  house,  too.  The 
German  women  have  all  got  a  flower  garden,  every  last 
one  of  'em. 

"The  Norse  are  thrifty,  too.  Yes,  they're  about 
as  careful  a  lot  of  citizens  as  we  have;  but  I  don't 
like  'em.  They're  a  high-toned  sort  of  people  and 
honest;  and  yet  at  the  same  time  they're  selfish  and 
have  kind  of  a  darn  mean  way.  They  don't  have  to 
be  here  long  from  Europe  before  they're  a  little  ashamed 
of  being  Norse.  Soon  as  they  learn  to  talk  English  they 
think  they're  a  little  better'n  you  are,  and  act  as  if  they 
had  an  idea  they  knew  a  blamed  sight  more  than  any 
one  else.  They're  great  hands  to  put  up  big  build- 
ings, and  once  in  a  while  one  attempts  a  little  more 
style  than  he  can  carry  out. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  most  people  here.  They 
feel  bound  to  put  on  style,  and  so  are  kept  in  debt. 
They  buy  fancy  buggies  and  two-seated  covered  rigs 
and  other  things  of  the  sort ;  not  because  they  need 
'em,  but  because  some  rich  men  they  know  have  got 
such  things.  They  buy  expensive  machinery,  too;  but 
they  don't  take  care  of  it.  A  man'll  invest  sixty  or 
seventy  dollars  in  a  gang  plough;  and  the  first  season 
he'll  put  it  in  the  shed,  but  the  next  year  he'll  leave  it 
in  the  field  just  where  he  got  through  using  it.  Some 
of  the  machines  they  run  under  a  bunch  of  trees  when 


A  PITCHER  OF  MILK 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  225 

they  ain't  in  use,  and  there  they  stay  and  rot.  The 
shade  keeps  'em  from  dryin'  after  a  rain,  and  they're 
ruined.  They'd  be  better  off  right  out  in  the  sun. 
Worse  still,  the  people  keep  a  miserable  lot  of  stock  of  all 
kinds  —  horses,  cattle,  and  everything  else ;  and  they 
turn  'em  out  to  pasture  in  the  spring  as  soon  as  the 
grass  starts,  and  the  cattle  keep  ahead  of  the  grass  the 
season  through  and  ain't  never  really  well  fed.  The 
buildings,  too,  are  put  up  just  as  cheap  as  possible  and 
won't  last." 

The  sky  had  been  growing  threatening  while  we 
talked,  and  I  now  thought  it  best  to  start  for  town.  On 
the  way  I  encountered  a  little  spatter  of  rain;  but  it 
was  soon  over,  the  clouds  drifted  on  and  streaks  of 
sunshine  glimmered  across  the  vast  landscape.  When 
I  arrived  at  the  hotel  office  I  found  several  people  there 
driven  in  by  the  shower  and  in  no  hurry  to  depart  as 
long  as  the  conversation  was  interesting.  One  of  the 
men  was  the  landlord.  He  was  as  much  a  farmer  as 
a  hotel-keeper,  and  he  was  coatless  and  had  on  overalls. 
Another  man  was  a  house  painter,  who  was  complaining 
because  a  certain  citizen  would  not  give  him  the  job 
of  painting  his  buildings.  When  he  came  to  a  pause  I 
spoke  of  my  cornfield  acquaintance  and  repeated  some 
of  his  pessimistic  remarks. 

"That's  straight,"  corroborated  the  painter.  "A 
man  can  come  here  with  six  good  horses  to-day,  and 
in  a  dozen  years  he  won't  have  enough  money  to  get 

Q 


226     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

out  of  the  country.  Suppose  he  takes  land  and  farms 
it  to  halves ;  at  the  end  of  the  season,  after  payin'  ex- 
penses, the  profits  won't  buy  a  bushel  of  potatoes. 
He'd  be  ten  times  better  off  to  go  up  in  the  woods  or 
on  the  railroad  and  work  by  the  day." 

"Now  stop  right  thar!"  said  the  landlord.  "I've 
been  here  four  times  as  long  as  you  have,  and  I've 
farmed  it,  too,  and  I  can  tell  you  thar  ain't  a  better 
country  lays  outdoors  than  southern  Minnesota." 

"That  talk'll  do  for  strangers,"  retorted  the  painter; 
"but,  by  gee!  it  won't  do  for  me.  My  brother  has  got  a 
quarter  section  here,  and  he'd  starve  to  death  if  I  didn't 
help  him.  Yes,  sir,  any  renter  who  pays  his  rent  and 
boards  his  family  is  doin'  a  darn  big  thing;  and  you 
can  stand  such  a  man  on  his  head  when  he's  through 
a  season  and  you  can't  shake  five  dollars  out  of  his 
pocket." 

"Look  here!"  exclaimed  the  landlord,  "the  best 
land  we  got  rents  for  two  dollars  an  acre;  and  the  man 
who  can't  make  money  on  it  ain't  no  farmer.  Whar  is 
your  brother  situated  ?" 

"Four  miles  out  on  the  east  road." 

"Oh,  well,  I  ain't  surprised  now  I  know  whar  he  is. 
That  land  is  so  cold  and  sour  you  couldn't  raise  quack 
grass  on  it." 

The  painter  laughed  and  said:  "A  feller  was  tellhY 
me  a  quack  grass  story  only  yesterday.  He  claimed  he 
lost  his  hat-band  one  summer  day  and  he  picked  some 


A   PAUSE  IN  THE  DAY'S  LABOR 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  227 

quack  grass  and  tied  it  around  his  hat.  When  he 
come  in  at  night  his  wife  took  off  the  quack  grass  and 
put  it  in  the  fire,  and  not  long  afterward  she  emptied 
out  the  ashes  from  the  stove,  and  within  a  few  days 
there  come  up  a  lot  of  quack  grass  where  she  throwed 
them  ashes." 

"You  can't  kill  it,"  affirmed  the  landlord,  "and  its 
sprouts  have  got  such  sharp,  horny  points  that  they'll 
go  right  through  a  potato,  or  even  through  a  pine  board. 
You  can  pull  up  a  bunch  of  it  and  hang  it  on  a  fence 
post,  and  the  next  year  throw  it  down  and  it'll  grow." 

"You  bet  your  boots  it  will,"  said  the  painter. 

"To  show  you  what  sort  of  a  country  this  is,"  con- 
tinued the  landlord,  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  done  last 
year.  Thar  was  a  part  of  my  cornfield  that  I  raised 
seventy  bushels  an  acre  on." 

"Not  much  you  didn't,"  disputed  the  painter. 
"Thirty  bushels  would  be  closeter  to  it." 

"I  maysured  it,"  the  landlord  declared,  "and  I'll 
leave  it  to  the  feller  that  did  the  husking.  You  know 
Jack  Searles.  He  did  most  the  whole  job  for  me  at 
three  cents  and  a  half  a  bushel;  and  he'd  do  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  bushels  in  a  day.  He  did  everlastingly 
rip  them  ears  out  o'  the  husks.  Why,  me  'n'  my  hired 
man  tried  racin'  with  him,  and  we  husked  like  cusses; 
but  he  did  five  bushels  while  both  of  us  together  was 
doin'  two." 

"Seventy  bushels  to  an  acre!"  scoffed  the  painter. 


228     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"It  can't  be  done.  Must  'a*  been  something  like  an 
ear  of  corn  I  fixed  up  to  show  in  a  store  window.  I  cut 
off  the  tip  of  one  ear  and  the  butt  of  another.  The 
places  where  I  cut  just  matched  in  size  and  I  stuck  a 
stiff  piece  of  wire  in  the  cobs  and  joined  the  two  ears 
together.  It  looked  like  a  single  ear,  and  I'll  be  dog- 
goned  if  it  wa'n't  more'n  three  feet  long.  Your  corn- 
field was  down  by  the  creek,  wa'n't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I  saw  it  a  year  ago  just  after  the  corn  come  up,  and 
I  never  see  such  crooked  rows  before  in  my  life." 

"My  man  planted  it,"  explained  the  landlord,  "and 
I  was  tellin'  him  we'd  have  to  use  the  same  horse  to 
cultivate  we  did  to  plant  because  none  o'  the  others 
could  go  so  crooked." 

"Well,"  said  the  painter,  "you  must  'a'  had  to  blind- 
fold the  horse  then  to  get  it  through  some  o'  the  rows." 

"You  can  joke,"  remarked  the  landlord  rather 
testily;  "but  I  raised  all  the  corn  I  said  I  did  on  that 
field.  I  can  make  money  here,  and  so  can  others, 
though  I  will  say,  with  the  land  at  present  prices,  a 
man  has  to  scratch  and  be  a  good  manager  to  get  to 
own  it.  But  thar  ain't  one  man  in  ten  of  our  farmers  in 
debt  now,  while  twenty  years  ago  not  more'n  one  in 
ten  was  out  of  debt." 

The  discussion  was  beginning  to  wax  hot  again  when 
one  of  the  occupants  of  the  room  called  us  all  to  the 
window.  A  rusty,  gray  old  man  was  walking  past 


A   RUSTIC  BRIDGE 


^>« 


On  the  Minnesota  Prairies  229 

accompanying  a  pudgy  old  woman.  He  was  very 
attentive,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  gallantry  and  an 
attempt  to  make  himself  agreeable  that  was  not  to  be 
mistaken. 

"Gee  whiz !"  exclaimed  the  painter,  "he's  a  widower 
and  she's  a  widow." 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "that's  goin'  to  be  a  match 
sure !  His  son  has  just  married  her  daughter,  and  now 
the  old  folks  are  goin'  to  hitch." 

"He  was  pretty  well  discouraged  after  his  wife  died," 
said  the  painter.  "If  he  was  haulin'  a  load  of  straw 
and  had  a  tipover,  or  if  any  other  little  thing  didn't 
go  right,  he  was  ready  to  leave  this  forsaken  country. 
But  he  seems  to  have  chirked  up  and  I  s'pose  every- 
thing is  lovely." 

"If  that  don't  beat  the  Dutch!"  commented  the 
landlord. 

The  dispute  about  the  prosperity  of  the  region  had 
been  forgotten;  for  this  glimpse  of  romance  had  been 
like  oil  on  troubled  waters. 

NOTE.  —  Any  characteristic  portion  of  our  country  repays  acquaint- 
ance, and  the  prairie  lands  of  southern  Minnesota  are  no  exception. 
They  are  monotonous,  and  the  tourist  may  not  be  tempted  to  linger 
long,  but  that  should  not  hinder  getting  a  sample  experience.  Hotels  in 
the  smaller  places  are  often  rude,  but  rarely  are  actually  uncomfortable, 
and  the  food,  if  not  fine,  is  palatable.  The  country  itself  is  in  some 
of  its  aspects  really  beautiful,  the  life  with  its  varied  mixtures  of  peoples 
from  Europe  is  interesting,  and  the  impressions  you  gain  have  lasting 
value. 


XIII 

NEW  TIMES   AND   OLD    IN   WISCONSIN 

IN  going  from  Minnesota  to  Wisconsin  I  spent 
half  a  day  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi.  It  was 
an  unusually  warm  morning;  but  there  was  a 
breeze  to  temper  the  heat,  and  the  views  along  the  stream 
were  very  beautiful  that  gentle  summery  day.  The  bluffs 
on  either  side  looked  like  mountain  ranges,  and  their 
sturdy  bulwarks  fading  away  delicately  blue,  north  and 
south,  until  they  vanished  in  the  distance,  were  most 
cheering  to  the  eye  after  all  the  interminable  flatlands 
which  I  had  been  seeing  on  the  prairie  country.  The 
river  itself  was  a  much  more  lovable  stream  here  than 
on  its  lower  course,  where  it  is  broader  and  muddier 
and  so  given  to  tearing  the  banks  and  wreaking  destruc- 
tion. 

When  I  continued  my  journey  I  went  well  back  from 
the  great  river  up  the  valley  of  the  Chippewa  to  a  town 
which  was  a  country  trading  centre  of  some  importance. 
It  had  a  long  business  street  lined  with  low  brick  and 
wooden  stores,  among  which  saloons  were  noticeably 
abundant.  "Yes,"  said  one  man,  "we  got  fourteen 
saloons  for  our  seventeen  hundred  inhabitants,  and 

230 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  231 

they're  never  locked.  There's  some  laws  as  to  the 
hours  they're  allowed  to  be  open;  but  when  a  man  in 
this  town  starts  a  saloon  he  throws  the  key  in  the  river." 

I  arrived  in  mid-afternoon  and  the  street  was  full 
of  vehicles  from  the  farms.  The  walks  and  stores  were 
alive  with  people  looking,  visiting,  and  trading.  Per- 
haps the  place  where  most  congregated  was  at  a  store 
in  which  an  auction  was  being  held.  When  I  passed 
it  the  auctioneer  was  in  a  swelter  of  ardent  exertion  try- 
ing to  get  eighty-five  cents  instead  of  eighty  for  a  piece 
of  dress  goods  he  was  waving  about  with  the  assertion 
that  it  was  worth  two  dollars. 

The  main  street  was  parallel  with  the  river,  and 
the  buildings  on  the  west  side  turned  their  backs  on  the 
stream.  Their  rear  foundations  were  washed  by  the 
current,  and  the  situation  in  that  direction  was  quite 
Venetian.  The  river  was  very  low  and  everywhere 
streaked  with  sandbars,  and  these  sandbars  were  strewn 
with  logs.  Along  the  shores  were  more  logs,  and  there 
were  logs  lodged  against  the  bridge  piers  and  all  other 
chance  obstructions  —  thousands  of  them.  Each  Sun- 
day there  was  a  flood.  Far  up  the  river  was  a  dam 
where  the  water  was  accumulated  on  purpose  to  "slush 
out  the  logs."  When  the  gates  are  opened  the  river  is 
raised  about  eighteen  inches.  Then  the  logs  on  the 
sandbars  and  shores  go  drifting  on,  and  a  multitude  of 
others  follow  from  the  forests  of  the  upper  waters.  The 
river  is  their  highway,  and  they  come  in  unceasing 


232      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

succession  for  many  weeks  of  the  spring  and  summer. 
Every  season  in  the  last  forty  years  the  stream  has  borne 
this  same  freightage  of  woodland  spoils;  but  the  land 
is  now  pretty  thoroughly  denuded,  and  as  one  of  my 
chance  acquaintances  said,  "This  year  practically  winds 
'em  up.  When  I  was  a  boy  the  logs  floated  so  thick  you 
could  walk  across  the  river  on  'em  steppin'  from  one  to 
another.  A  few  years  ago  there  was  lots  o'  rafts  of  sawed 
lumber  went  down — sometimes  twenty  a  day.  There'd 
be  men  on  the  rafts  and  every  raft  would  have  a  tent 
on  it  for  the  men  to  sleep  in.  They'd  tie  up  nights." 

Now,  only  logs  go  down;  but  they  are  stopped  by  a 
boom  and  rafted  when  they  get  to  where  the  Chippewa 
joins  the  Mississippi,  and  then  are  floated  or  towed 
down  the  great  river  to  sawmills  —  even  as  far  south 
as  St.  Louis. 

The  artificial  flooding  of  the  Chippewa  is  not  at  all 
to  the  liking  of  some  of  the  residents  on  the  banks.  In 
the  first  place  it  made  trouble  with  the  Indians. 
"They  had  big  fields  of  wild  rice  on  the  lowlands," 
said  my  informant,  "and  these  was  jus'  bein'  spoiled 
by  the  water  and  logs  comin'  on  'em.  So  they  got 
ready  to  break  the  dam.  They  was  goin'  to  fight,  if 
necessary,  and  they  took  along  their  bows  and  arrows, 
and  a  few  rusty  old  guns  they  had.  They  found  three 
or  four  hundred  white  men  ready  for  'em,  and  there'd 
'a'  been  a  battle  sure;  but  the  lumber  company  made 
a  treaty  with  the  Indians  and  agreed  to  give  'em  every 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  233 

year   free   gratis    as    much    rice    as   they    could  have 
raised. 

"This  season  the  company  is  havin'  trouble  with  a 
man  who  owns  a  farm  where  the  dam  is.  He  claims 
they  got  no  business  to  flood  his  land,  and  he  says  they 
must  pay  him  ten  cents  a  thousand  for  all  the  logs  they 
run  through  the  dam.  He  says  he's  goin'  to  keep  the 
gates  in  the  dam  locked  until  they  agree.  They  offered 
five  hundred  dollars  to  buy  him  off,  and  when  he  re- 
fused it  they  sent  a  hundred  men  to  clean  him  out ;  but 
be  made  the  men  a  speech  and  the  whole  lot  quit. 
Most  everybody  up  there  is  in  sympathy  with  him, 
because  the  lumber  company  has  been  pretty  arbitrary 
and  acted  as  if  no  one  got  any  rights  but  them.  The 
man  has  his  Winchester  ready,  and  he's  put  up  a 
stone  building  with  port-holes  in  it,  and  he  and  his  wife 
are  in  there.  Last  thing  I  heard  he'd  wounded  the 
sheriff  who  was  goin'  to  arrest  him,  and  it  was  ex- 
pected the  governor  would  send  troops  to  shoot  him 


out." 


One  of  my  rambles  took  me  several  miles  up  the 
valley.  The  roads  were  a  serious  handicap  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  walk,  for  they  were  ankle  deep  with 
dust  and  sand.  The  teams  I  met  moved  at  a  snail's 
pace,  the  wheels  ploughing  heavily  into  the  sand. 
Sometimes  the  occupants  of  the  vehicles  took  pity  on 
the  horses  and  got  out  and  plodded  along  beside  them. 
Back  from  the  river  the  land  rose  in  steep  bluffs  to  a 


234     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

higher  level,  and  the  roads  were  harder.  The  uplands 
were  for  the  most  part  a  great  unfenced  plain  with 
wooded  ridges  of?  in  the  distance.  There  were  occa- 
sional groups  of  farm  buildings,  and  now  and  then 
workers  and  teams  toiling  in  the  fields.  Much  spring 
work  was  still  to  be  done,  and  in  some  of  the  last  year's 
cornfields  the  shattered  stalks  were  standing  as  yet 
undisturbed.  The  wind  was  blowing,  and  it  rustled 
through  the  dry,  faded  cornstalks  with  a  shivering  and 
lonely  sort  of  a  dirge. 

Here  and  there  along  the  horizon  smoke  was  rising 
from  woodland  fires,  and  its  pungent  odor  pervaded  the 
air.  Considerable  damage  was  being  done,  though  the 
local  forests  were  not  very  large  or  valuable.  As 
a  rule  the  fires  are  allowed  to  burn  themselves  out; 
but  occasionally  the  farmers  go  in  force  and  try  to 
subdue  the  devouring  flames. 

The  farmhouses  of  the  region  were  usually  of  brick 
or  stone,  snug  and  substantial,  with  numerous  out- 
buildings. There  were  few  trees  and  little  shrubbery 
about  them,  and  in  general  the  landscape  was  singularly 
barren  and  forbidding.  I  could  not  help  fancying  that 
I  was  far  in  the  north,  where  the  chill  of  winter  is  so 
prolonged  that  the  growths  of  forest  and  field  get  no 
chance  to  attain  full  development.  Yet  the  trim  dwell- 
ings and  big  barns  seemed  to  proclaim  plentiful  har- 
vests and  a  large  degree  of  prosperity.  Dairying  is 
the  chief  business.  Great  quantities  of  milk  are  pro- 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  235 

duced  for  the  creameries,  and  everywhere  were  broad 
pastures  and  grazing  herds  of  cows. 

The  sky  had  been  gradually  clouding  all  day,  and,  as 
the  afternoon  advanced,  the  light  faded  into  a  gray 
gloom.  I  turned  back  toward  the  town  and  was  fortu- 
nate in  getting  there  ahead  of  the  storm.  We  had  two 
or  three  showers  slapdashing  around  in  the  night,  and 
it  began  raining  again  in  the  morning.  The  landscape 
was  dim  and  blurred  with  the  driving  storm,  and  I  could 
scarcely  see  the  bluffs  and  trees  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  stream. 

My  landlord  advised  me  to  call  on  a  certain  old 
gentleman  who  lived  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
and  who  made  a  specialty  of  collecting  geological  and 
Indian  relics.  "I'll  lend  you  an  umbrell,"  said  he, 
in  conclusion,  "and  that'll  stop  the  rain.  Then  you'll 
leave  it  somewhere  and  forget  it  if  you're  anything 
like  me.  So  I  won't  lend  you  my  best  one." 

I  found  the  person  recommended  at  work  under  a 
shed  —  a  white-haired  countryman  in  a  red  shirt  and 
an  ancient  slouch  hat.  Beneath  the  trees  in  his  garden 
he  had  a  little  building  packed  full  of  his  gather- 
ings, and  these  he  took  great  satisfaction  in  showing 
to  me.  There  was  no  end  of  stones,  beautiful  and 
curious  —  meteorites,  petrifactions,  corals,  crystals, 
and  I  know  not  what.  Among  the  rest  were  many 
Indian  implements  varying  from  tiny  bird  arrows  to 
heavy  mauls  and  axes.  Collecting  had  been  a  life- 


236     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

long  enthusiasm,  and  his  gatherings  were  locally  quite 
famous. 

"The  teachers  in  the  town  schools  been  comin'  here 
lately  and  bringin'  the  children  to  see  the  stones,"  said 
he.  "They  think  the  scholars  can  learn  considerable 
that  way  which  they  couldn't  learn  out  of  books.  But 
some  of  our  people  are  afraid  the  children'll  learn  a 
little  too  much.  We  got  one  preacher  in  particular  that 
claims  they'll  all  get  to  be  infidels  because  I  tell  'em 
some  o'  the  facts  o'  geology  that  don't  fit  with  his 
theological  ideas.  He  tackled  me  one  day  on  the  street 
to  complain  of  what  I'd  been  sayin'  to  the  children 
about  the  age  of  the  earth.  'God  made  this  world  in 
six  days/  said  he,  'and  there  ain't  but  six  thousand 
years  passed  since/ 

"'Why/  I  said,  'I  got  stones  in  my  museum  a  half- 
inch  thick  that  was  found  in  the  ocean  bed,  and  that 
couldn't  V  been  made  there  in  less'n  fifty  thousand 
years/ 

"'Oh,  no/  he  says,  'you're  mistaken.  Don't  you 
believe  the  Bible?' 

"'Well/  I  says,  'the  Bible  is  a  pretty  fair  middlin* 
sort  of  history  of  the  Jewish  people;  but  it  ain't  no 
scientific  work.' 

"Talking  with  him  was  a  waste  of  breath.  That 
feller  wouldn't  know  beans  if  he  had  his  head  in 
the  bag.  He's  very  religious,  of  course;  but  that's  hu- 
man nature  —  the  more  ignorance,  the  more  religion. 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  237 

I  can  remember  when  people  all  thought  as  he  does; 
and  it'd  surprise  you  how  bigoted  some  o'  the  preachers 
was.  For  instance,  there  was  a  preacher  we  had  in 
my  boyhood  days  who  made  a  great  whoop  and  hurrah 
about  keepin'  the  Sabbath,  and  he  wouldn't  never 
preach  of  a  Sunday  without  givin'  us  a  good  stiff 
warnin'  about  goin'  to  church.  He  claimed  the  Bible 
would  back  him  up  in  all  he  said.  But  it  wouldn't, 
and  after  church,  one  day,  I  asked  him  a  few  questions 
and  got  him  cornered.  Then  he  spoke  to  my  father 
and  said,  'If  that  was  my  boy  I'd  tie  him  to  a  tree  and 
whip  him  till  the  blood  run  off  his  heels.' 

"  My  father  had  been  a-listening  to  our  talk,  and  he 
said,  'You  ain't  been  fair.  You  didn't  answer  him,  and 
this  is  the  last  time  I'll  come  to  hear  your  preachin'.' 

"He  never  went  to  that  church  again,  and  I  been 
doin'  my  own  thinkin'  ever  since." 

The  town  was  still  young,  and  there  were  persons 
living  in  it  who  had  been  residents  from  the  start. 
Such  persons  liked  to  recall  the  early  hardships,  and 
I  enjoyed  listening  to  the  story  of  their  experiences. 

"My  folks  was  the  first  people  here,"  said  one  man. 
"We  were  a  month  on  the  road  comin'.  Sometimes 
we'd  make  fifteen  miles  a  day,  and  then  again  not 
more'n  three  or  four.  Most  of  our  stuff  was  in  a  big 
canvas-topped  wagon  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  cattle.  We 
had,  besides,  a  lighter  covered  wagon  drawn  by  one 
horse.  Us  kids  rode  in  that.  We  carried  our  food, 


238     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  when  we  run  short  we  could  buy  more;  for  the 
country  was  settled  some  until  we  got  most  here. 
The  roads  was  pretty  bad  and  the  last  part  of  the 
journey  there  was  nothin'  but  Indian  trails.  The 
woods  was  full  of  fallen  trees,  and  often  we'd  have  to 
chop  'em  away  in  order  to  get  along.  When  we  come 
to  a  stream  we  usually  had  to  ford  it,  though  sometimes 
there' d  be  a  ferry. 

"People  movin'  like  that  was  in  the  habit  of  goin* 
in  companies  of  from  two  to  half  a  dozen  families.  We 
had  several  other  families  goin'  with  us,  and  whenever 
some  wagons  got  ahead  of  the  rest,  the  people  that  was  in 
front  would  every  now  and  then  write  on  a  slip  of  paper 
and  put  it  on  a  stick  side  of  the  road  tellin'  when  they 
passed.  We  always  tried  to  camp  where  we  could  get 
water  easy.  If  we  found  a  good  stream  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  we'd  stop  there,  for  fear  we  wouldn't 
do  as  well  later.  We'd  build  a  fire  on  the  ground 
and  get  the  kittle  boiling,  and  perhaps  we'd  ketch  a 
mess  of  fish.  Some  nice  evenings  we'd  sleep  on  the 
ground  or  in  a  tent;  but  generally  we  bunked  in  the 
wagons. 

"When  we  got  here  we  put  up  a  log  house.  The 
walls  was  of  logs,  and  we  split  logs  for  the  floor  and  for 
the  roof  and  window-casings  and  doors.  Our  chimney 
was  made  of  mud  and  sticks.  We  didn't  use  any  nails 
or  iron  worth  mentioning  in  the  whole  job.  Wooden 
pins  did  for  nails,  and  leather  straps  for  door  hinges. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


AT  THE  BACK  DOOR 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  239 

The  latches  for  the  doors  was  wooden,  and  a  string 
was  hitched  on  to  the  latch  and  run  out  through  a  hole 
above.  When  you  wanted  to  come  in,  you  yanked  the 
string  and  that  lifted  the  latch,  and  you  only  needed  to 
pull  in  the  string  and  the  door  was  locked. 

"Well,  there  we  was,  a  few  families  of  us,  and  the 
nearest  settlement  was  Reed's  Landing,  down  where 
the  Chippewa  joins  the  Mississippi.  We  had  horses 
and  oxen,  but  no  roads,  and  we  had  to  get  our  supplies 
from  Reed's  Landing  on  foot.  The  distance  was  only 
twenty  miles;  but  it.  would  take  father  two  days  to 
come  back  with  a  sack  of  flour  on  his  shoulder.  The 
flour  made  a  big  load  and  he'd  go  pokin'  along  pretty 
slow.  At  night  he'd  stop  and  build  a  fire  and  roll  up 
in  his  blankets  and  go  to  sleep.  That  winter  we  had 
the  most  snow  I've  ever  seen.  It  lay  four  feet  on  a 
level  and  the  drifts  was  ten  feet  deep.  When  we  run 
out  of  grub  and  father  had  to  go  to  Reed's  Landing, 
he'd  put  on  snowshoes  and  drag  a  sled  after  him  with 
his  gun  strapped  to  it. 

"We  did  without  most  everything  that  waVt  abso- 
lutely necessary  those  first  years.  Pork  was  twenty- 
five  cents  a  pound  and  other  things  in  proportion.  We 
had  just  one  hen,  and  the  eggs  she  laid  was  worth  a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  dozen.  So  we  didn't  eat  'em,  but 
exchanged  'em  for  coffee.  We  generally  had  bread, 
though  it  wa'n't  half  the  time  we  had  wheat  flour. 
Corn-bread  was  the  standard.  Venison  was  plenty. 


240     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

A  fellow  could  go  back  here  on  the  bluff  any  time  and 
kill  five  or  six  deer  in  a  day.  I've  seen  deer  run  through 
the  streets  among  the  log  houses  and  wooden  stores. 
It  was  no  excitement  at  all  to  see  one  swim  across 
the  river.  Sometimes  we'd  run  out  and  take  a  boat 
and  foller  after  the  deer  and  kill  it  with  a  paddle. 
The  winter  of  the  big  snow  a  man  could  go  on 
his  snowshoes  and  knock  the  deer  down  with  an 
axe. 

"We  used  to  lay  by  a  good  deal  of  dry  venison.  We'd 
first  salt  it  down  for  a  few  days,  and  then  hang  it  by  the 
kitchen  fire  to  dry.  The  dried  meat  was  called  jerked 
venison.  I  can  remember  settin'  on  the  doorstep  eatin* 
it  when  I  got  hungry  between  meals.  Us  kids  was 
eatin'  all  the  time.  Everything  tasted  good  then. 
When  you  get  older  your  appetite  goes  back  on  you; 
but  you  most  likely  think  there's  a  difference  in  the 
cookin'.  You  say  to  your  wife,  '  Gosh,  darn  it !  my 
mother  use  to  cook  food  that  was  good.'  But  it  wa'n't 
the  cookin' !  —  it  was  your  appetite  that  was  good. 
These  little  rascals  knocking  around  on  our  streets  are 
ready  to  eat  anything  and  enjoy  it,  and  so  it  will  be 
always. 

"One  food  we  had  regular  was  hominy.  We'd  sit 
up  nights  to  shell  the  corn.  To  take  the  hulls  off  we'd 
boil  it  in  lye,  and  after  that,  it  was  boiled  in  water  to 
get  rid  of  the  lye.  Then  it  needed  to  be  renced  three 
or  four  times  and  was  ready  for  a  little  seasonin'  of 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  241 

pepper,  salt,  and  lard.  We  had  fried  hominy  about 
every  mornin'. 

"  Do  you  know  what  pumpkin  butter  is  ?  We  made 
it  by  boiling  the  pumpkins  in  a  big  kittle,  then  squeez- 
ing the  juice  out  in  a  press,  and  straining  and  boiling 
it  down.  Perhaps  it  would  be  thickened  some  with 
apples.  You  spread  that  on  a  piece  of  bread,  and 
you'd  think  it  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world. 

"There  was  no  beef  or  milk  to  be  had  at  first;  but 
more  people  was  comin'  into  the  country  all  the  time, 
and  they  soon  brought  cattle  and  begun  growin'  pota- 
toes, and  then  we  was  all  right.  We  made  roads,  too, 
and  the  lumber  companies  got  a-goin',  and  the  logs  and 
rafts  was  floatin'  down  the  river.  To  get  our  supplies 
easier  the  people  here  built  a  keel  boat  forty  feet  long 
and  ten  wide,  and  they  use  to  pole  it  down  to  Reed's 
Landing  and  back.  When  the  wind  was  right  they'd 
put  up  a  big  sail.  It  took  four  men  to  handle  it,  and 
they  was  several  days  comin'  back  against  the  current. 

"Of  course  there  was  Indians  around;  but  they  was 
perfectly  friendly  at  first.  They  would  come  to  our 
house  now  and  then  and  ask  for  something  to  eat. 
Mother'd  give  'em  a  slice  of  bread  spread  with  lard. 
We  didn't  have  no  butter  —  didn't  know  what  butter 
was.  They  were  great  beggars,  and  they'd  steal  any- 
thing they  could  lay  their  hands  on  —  I've  been  to  their 
villages  and  inside  of  their  wigwams.  The  wigwams 
had  a  frame  of  sticks  set  up  cone  shaped  and  covered 


242     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

with  hides,  and  they  always  was  dirty  and  had  a  smoky 
smell.  When  a  family  got  hungry  they  boiled  up  a 
mess  of  meat,  and  each  of  'em  would  set  down  and  eat 
a  chunk.  They  didn't  wear  much  clothes  in  summer; 
but  in  winter  they  had  a  full  suit  of  buckskin,  and  put 
on  leggings,  moccasins,  and  blankets.  Most  of  'em 
scratched  over  a  little  ground  and  raised  a  few  pump- 
kins and  some  corn.  They  ain't  got  the  ambition  to 
do  any  more  than  that,  even  now.  The  fact  is,  you 
can't  civilize  an  Indian.  They're  just  like  a  partridge. 
It's  their  nature  to  be  camping  out.  You  can  educate 
them  as  much  as  you  please,  and  they'll  go  wild  again 
and  get  back  to  their  old  ways  and  haunts. 

"In  1857,  I  think  it  was,  when  I  was  about  eight 
years  old,  the  Chippewas  and  Sioux  fought  a  battle 
here.  We  saw  the  two  parties  arrive  late  one  day,  and 
we  knew  at  once  there  was  goin'  to  be  trouble  and  was 
well  scared.  All  the  whites  got  together  in  the  biggest 
and  stoutest  log  house.  About  dark  I  slipped  out  and 
went  down  by  the  river  and  hid  where  I  could  look  on. 
I  got  near  enough  to  one  of  the  parties  so  I  see  their  war 
dance.  They  formed  a  circle  with  a  feller  settin'  in 
the  centre  poundin'  a  drum,  and  while  they  danced 
they  sang  in  a  kind  of  monotone  and  waved  around 
their  guns  and  bows  and  arrows  and  tomahawks.  It 
wa'n't  long  before  the  fighting  began,  and  some  Indians 
was  in  canoes  and  some  on  the  bank,  and  I  saw  'em 
killin'  and  scalpin'  each  other.  Pretty  soon  father 


MAKING   LYE  FOR  SOFT-SOAP 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  243 

come  lookin'  for  me,  and  he  give  me  the  worst  lickin' 
I  ever  had. 

"There  was  lots  of  elk  when  we  first  come  and  quite 
a  few  moose  and  plenty  of  timber  wolves.  Week 
before  last  a  feller  brought  to  town  seven  little  wolves 
he'd  caught  back  in  the  woods.  It  was  a  good  haul, 
because  there's  a  bounty  of  six  dollars  apiece.  I  hear 
every  little  while  of  some  farmer  who  has  lost  sheep 
carried  off  by  the  wolves.  I've  had  'em  kill  calves  of 
mine  a  year  old.  I  come  across  five  or  six  wolves 
chasin'  a  deer  through  the  woods  once.  They  had  it 
jus'  about  petered,  and  when  it  come  opposite  me  they 
downed  it.  Then  I  stepped  up  and  they  all  run  but 
one.  I  fixed  him  with  my  gun  and  got  the  deer.  They 
hadn't  harmed  it  any  but  the  throat,  and  I  cut  off  what 
meat  I  could  carry  handy,  and  the  rest  I  hitched  to  an 
iron-wood  sappling  that  I  bent  over  and  then  let  it 
swing  up  into  the  air.  That  hoisted  the  carcass  out 
of  the  wolves'  reach. 

"A  wolf  is  a  funny  animal.  You  find  a  nest  and 
handle  the  young,  and  the  old  wolf  will  go  off  and 
desert  'em.  When  we  was  new  to  the  country  we  was 
afraid  of  the  wolves;  but  we  soon  got  used  to  their 
ways  and  learned  there  was  nothing  to  be  scared  of. 
Even  if  you  are  alone  and  it's  night  they  won't  touch 
you  if  you've  got  a  fire  built.  I  wouldn't  mind  meet- 
ing eight  or  ten  of  'em  if  I  had  a  good  club.  Ordinarily 
they'll  run  from  you;  but  they  might  attack  you  if  they 


244     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

was  very  hungry.  I've  never  had  any  trouble  with 
'em,  and  I  been  out  all  sorts  of  times  and  places.  If 
you're  passin'  along  a  lonely  road  after  dark  you'll 
hear  'em  howl  to  get  their  gang  together.  They  know 
you  are  there,  and  somewhere  off  on  the  bluffs  they'll 
be  answering  one  another;  but  after  they've  sized  you 
up  they'll  go  away. 

"We  had  wildcats  here  —  oh,  Lord,  yes!  And  we 
had  bears;  but  bears  are  harmless  beasts.  Of  course, 
corner  one  up  or  get  him  in  a  trap  and  he'll  fight.  Even 
a  deer'll  fight  in  such  circumstances.  I've  had  'em 
raise  up  in  a  huckleberry  patch  and  look  at  me;  but 
they  didn't  offer  to  do  me  no  harm.  I'm  often  asked 
if  bears  ever  chase  any  one.  Well,  I've  heard  people 
say  so;  but  I  didn't  believe  it.  We  had  bear  meat 
frequent  to  eat.  It  had  a  wild  taste;  but  if  the  creature 
was  young  and  fat,  the  meat  was  mighty  good.  I'd 
like  a  nice  chunk  for  supper  to-night  —  you  bet  your 
life  I  would. 

"Squirrels  was  numerous,  and  they  are  now.  I  went 
out  here  last  fall  and  shot  three  or  four  off  one  tree. 
There  was  lots  of  beaver,  especially  on  the  small 
streams,  and  there  are  some  left  still;  but  they're  a 
cute  animal,  and  you  would  have  trouble  findin'  'em. 
We  did  a  good  deal  of  trappin'  in  the  old  days.  Quite 
a  few  follered  that  as  a  business.  October  and  Novem- 
ber was  the  best  months,  but  the  early  spring  was  good, 
too.  Most  of  us  set  traps  on  the  cricks  and  went  to  see 


STARTING  FOR  WORK 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  245 

what  we'd  got  every  day.  Some  fellers  would  build 
camps  on  the  shores  of  the  wild  lakes  and  stay  there 
to  hunt  and  fish  right  along  durin'  the  season.  The 
fish  was  ten  to  one  what  they  are  now  —  yes,  a  hundred 
to  one.  I  could  go  down  here  to  the  river,  and  in  five 
minutes  ketch  the  finest  string  of  black  bass  you  ever 
set  eyes  on.  At  the  mouth  of  the  little  crick  near  our 
cabin  I've  ketched  of  an  evening  a  hundred  pounds  of 
pike  and  pickerel  with  no  trouble  at  all.  And  talk 
about  trout  —  every  brook  was  full.  It  makes  me  lone- 
some to  think  about  how  few  there  are  now. 

"Within  three  years  after  we  settled  here  the  place 
had  grown  to  quite  a  village,  and  there  was  a  store,  a 
hotel,  and  a  sawmill.  We  was  jus'  thinkin'  we  had  got 
well  established  when  there  come  a  flood  that  pretty 
near  cleaned  us  out.  It  was  in  May  after  the  snow  was 
all  gone,  and  the  rise  was  caused  wholly  by  heavy  rains 
in  the  north.  We  slept  upstairs,  and  the  river  rose  so 
in  the  night  that  next  morning  when  father  come  down 
he  stepped  off  the  stairway  into  the  water.  He  hurried 
and  got  a  flatboat  he  had,  and  we  put  what  goods  we 
could  in  it  and  went  to  the  bluffs.  All  the  cattle  and 
pigs  was  drowned,  and  the  booms  broke  so  the  river 
was  full  of  floatin'  logs.  The  logs  punched  through 
the  house  walls,  and  some  of  the  cabins  was  tipped 
over,  and  ourn  was  carried  away.  After  the  flood  was 
past  we  straightened  up  what  buildings  was  left  and 
moved  'em  to  higher  ground. 


246     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"We  was  soon  prosperin'  again.  It  was  easy  pickin' 
up  money  then.  I've  seen  the  day,  my  friend,  here  in 
this  town,  when  you  couldn't  get  a  man  to  do  a  day's 
work  for  you.  Everybody  had  plenty  of  money  and 
they  wa'n't  anxious  to  work  for  any  one  but  themselves. 
Well,  sometimes  you  can't  get  a  man  now.  It's  almost 
impossible  to  get  one  on  Sunday  to  do  a  job  for  you. 
Til  come  if  it  rains,'  he'll  say;  but  otherwise  he'll 
be  out  on  the  water  or  monkeying  around  with  the 
girls. 

"We  used  to  be  more  dependent  on  ourselves  —  did 
our  own  spinning  and  knitting  and  all  that.  Lots  of 
people  back  in  the  country  spin  yarn  yet  and  knit  the 
family  stockings  and  mittens,  and  they  often  knit  to 
sell  to  our  choppers  and  teamsters.  The  things  they 
knit  are  good  and  thick  and  jus'  right  for  people  who 
are  out  in  the  cold  much. 

"Mother  used  to  fry  out  the  grease  from  the  bears, 
deer,  and  coons  we  killed  and  make  it  into  candles; 
but  sometimes  we'd  run  short  of  candles  and  have 
nothing  better  for  a  light  than  some  grease  in  a  dish 
with  a  rag  set  up  in  the  middle.  We  thought  coon 
grease  was  specially  good  for  boots.  I've  seen  my  boots 
so  darn  stiff  when  I  got  up  in  the  mornin'  I  couldn't 
get  'em  on  until  I'd  give  'em  a  good  rubbing  with  coon 
grease.  It  was  our  idea  the  boots  lasted  longer  if  we 
changed  feet  with  'em  every  day,  because  what  they'd 
run  over  one  day  they'd  run  back  the  next. 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  247 

"Mosquitoes  bothered  us  a  good  deal  more  than  they 
do  now.  You  see  there  was  no  such  thing  as  netting  to 
keep  'em  out.  We  had  a  regular  smudge  kittle  fixed 
with  a  hole  near  the  bottom  to  make  a  draught  for  the 
fire  that  we'd  start  inside.  When  it  was  smokin'  good 
we'd  carry  it  through  the  house.  I've  known  father  to 
get  up  in  the  night  when  the  mosquitoes  was  real  bad, 
and  spread  some  powder  on  a  dish  and  touch  it  off. 
The  mosquitoes  couldn't  stand  that  kind  of  a  smudge. 

"  Every  spring  we'd  go  across  the  river  three  or  four 
miles  to  a  camp  in  the  woods  to  make  maple  sugar. 
We  had  a  log  shed  there,  open  in  front,  facing  our  fire. 
We'd  tap  a  thousand  trees.  I  c'n  remember  just  as 
well  as  if  it  was  yesterday  the  sumach  spiles  we  used, 
and  the  basswood  pans  we  chopped  out  to  catch  the  sap, 
and  all  about  it.  We  fixed  up  a  sort  of  oven  with  stones 
and  clay,  and  set  on  it  a  shallow  pan  we  made  out  of 
sheet  iron,  with  board  sides.  Then  we  found  the  big- 
gest basswood  we  could,  and  cut  it  down  and  chopped 
it  out  into  a  trough  twenty  feet  long  to  hold  the  sap 
when  we  brought  it  in  from  the  sugar  bush.  An  ox- 
team  would  be  busy  all  the  time  hauling.  The  oxen 
were  hitched  to  a  draw  made  of  a  heavy  tree  crotch, 
shaped  with  our  axes  into  a  rough  sledge.  On  that  we 
set  a  hogshead.  The  basswood  trough  was  propped 
up  on  blocks,  and  there  was  a  little  trough  connecting 
it  with  the  boiling  pan,  so  we  could  run  in  more  sap  as 
it  was  needed.  Some  of  us  had  to  be  on  hand  all  the 


248     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

time,  for  we  kept  the  boiling  going  without  any  let-up. 
We'd  take  turns  standing  watches  during  the  night. 

"After  we'd  got  a  mess  boiled  down  to  syrup  we'd 
strain  it  through  a  cloth.  Then  we'd  put  it  in  a  kittle 
we  had  hung  from  a  pole  laid  on  two  crotched  sticks 
over  an  open  fire,  and  boil  it  down  to  sugar.  The  sugar 
we  made  into  cakes,  and  some  of  it  we  sold,  and  the 
rest  we  used.  It  was  the  only  sugar  we  had.  The  last 
run  of  sap  was  rather  poor,  and  we'd  save  a  couple  of 
barrels  of  it  partly  boiled  down  and  take  it  home  and 
leave  it  in  the  yard  with  the  bungs  out  of  the  barrels. 
It  would  turn  into  the  best  kind  o'  vinegar.  Some- 
times we'd  pour  a  little  of  the  hot  syrup  on  the  snow  and 
it  would  form  into  a  kind  of  gum  —  very  sticky  and 
very  sweet.  Once  a  feller  who  had  false  teeth  come 
over  to  our  camp  and  tried  some  of  the  gum.  It  pulled 
his  teeth  loose  and  he  was  an  hour  gettin'  'em  in  order 
again.  Lord  Harry !  we  had  lots  of  fun  over  in  the 
sugar  bush.  In  the  night  the  bears  and  wildcats  would 
come  prowlin'  around  and  carry  things  off  if  we  wa'n't 
careful. 

"We  could  easily  get  all  the  honey  we  wanted.  If 
you  happened  across  a  bee  tree  you  jus'  cut  your 
initials  on  the  bark,  and  that  was  a  sign  it  was  yourn, 
and  if  anybody  else  happened  to  find  it  he  wouldn't 
meddle  with  it.  You  could  come  and  cut  the  tree  down 
and  chop  the  honey  out  when  you  was  ready.  Now 
and  then  we'd  hunt  for  bee  trees  by  goin'  out  in  the 


New  Times  and  Old  in  Wisconsin  249 

fields  and  puttin'  molasses  or  somethin'  sweet  on  a 
block.  Pretty  soon  a  bee  would  find  it  and  fill  up,  and 
when  he  started  for  home  you'd  track  him.  After  father 
had  cut  down  a  bee  tree  he'd  put  the  bees  in  a  box  and 
take  'em  home,  and  they'd  go  right  on  makin'  honey. 
I  want  to  tell  you,  brother,  it  was  just  a  delight  to  be 
a  boy  here  then. 

"Our  first  school  was  kept  in  the  houses,  right  through 
the  village,  taking  every  house  in  turn  where  there  was 
children;  and  at  whatever  house  the  teacher  was  havin' 
school  there  she  boarded.  The  first  building  put  up 
for  the  school  was  of  logs  chinked  with  clay.  We  had 
no  desks,  but  sat  on  backless  wooden  benches  and  held 
our  books  in  our  laps. 

"As  I  grew  older  I  had  my  best  times  at  the  dances. 
Winter  was  the  dance  season  and  we'd  go  somewhere 
two  or  three  times  a  week.  We'd  start  early  and 
take  an  ox-team  and  fill  the  body  of  a  big  sled  with 
straw  and  blankets  and  all  pile  on  and  ride  to  the  farm- 
house where  we  had  been  invited.  We  didn't  put  on 
no  style.  All  a  feller  needed  to  do  was  to  get  his  over- 
alls washed  so  he  could  slip  'em  on  clean ;  and  if  a  girl 
wore  a  new  calico  dress  she  was  a  dandy.  A  violin 
furnished  music  for  the  dancin'.  Most  generally 
everybody  baked  up  some  food  to  take,  and  along  about 
midnight  we'd  have  a  feast  of  bread  and  butter,  cake 
and  pickles,  and  there  was  a  chunk  of  boiled  pork 
from  which  we  sliced  off  what  we  wanted. 


250     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"While  the  town  was  new  it  was  kind  of  a  rough 
place.  You  could  see  a  fight  any  time.  The  'general 
store*  kept  a  barrel  of  corn  whiskey  in  the  cellar  or 
back  room,  and  was  ready  to  fill  a  pint  bottle  or  a  gallon 
jug  for  whoever  wanted  to  pay  the  price  of  it. 

"The  people  that  come  in  here  early  was  religious, 
and  my  mother  learnt  me  to  say  my  prayers  when  I 
went  to  bed.  We  soon  had  a  preacher,  and  he  was  a 
good  one,  too,  though  he  had  to  get  his  livin'  mostly 
by  workin'  in  the  fields.  At  first  we  met  in  one  or  two 
of  the  larger  houses  for  our  prayer  meetings  and  church 
services ;  but  later  used  the  schoolhouse.  Once  we  had 
a  revival  and  I  attended  it  with  my  girl.  She  got  quite 
excited,  and  before  I  knew  what  was  happening  she 
started  for  the  mourners'  bench.  She  didn't  ask  me  if 
I'd  go.  She  jus'  got  up  and  went  all  by  herself.  Well, 
she  kneeled  down  there,  and  I  see  right  next  to 
her  a  feller  kneelin'  she'd  been  goin'  with  some  and 
who  was  a  rival  o'  mine.  I  said,  '  By  gosh !  I  can't 
stand  that !  Maybe  he'll  be  ketchin'  her.'  There  was 
jus'  a  little  room  between  her  and  him,  and  I  stepped 
up  and  kneeled  so  as  to  separate  'em. 

"I  cut  him  out  that  time,  and  he  didn't  marry  that 
girl.  As  far  as  that  goes,  neither  did  I.  Oh,  well,  you 
can't  be  young  but  once." 

NOTE.  —  At  any  town  of  reasonable  size  you  will  find  a  good  hotel, 
and  when  you  are  once  lodged  to  your  satisfaction  you  can  proceed  to 
get  acquainted  with  the  country  around  in  your  own  way. 


XIV 

HOUSEBOAT   LIFE 

OF  all  the  dwellers  in  the  valley  of  the  great  river, 
those  who  live  in  the  houseboats  have  by  far  the 
most  picturesque  environment.  You  find  them 
everywhere  from  St.  Paul  to  New  Orleans,  and  not  only 
on  the  main  river,  but  on  all  the  larger  tributaries. 
There  are  many  thousands  of  these  water-gypsies  in  all, 
though  the  number  fluctuates,  and  in  winter  the  northern 
regions  are  pretty  much  deserted  by  them.  Sometimes 
you  may  see  a  score  or  more  boats  in  the  neighborhood 
of  a  single  large  town,  and  again,  the  flotilla  may  be 
reduced  to  a  half  dozen. 

The  boats  vary  surprisingly  in  size  and  architecture. 
Every  man  builds  according  to  his  means,  his  chance 
whims,  and  the  material  he  may  have  at  hand.  Some 
boats  are  hardly  bigger  than  an  ordinary  skiff*  and  are 
roofed  with  canvas  stretched  over  hoops.  The  dwellers 
crawl  inside  as  into  a  hole  in  the  ground.  Other  boats 
are  large,  convenient,  and  attractive,  and  make  homes 
by  no  means  to  be  despised.  They  have  several  rooms, 
and  very  likely  "are  as  nice  inside  as  the  parlor  in  any- 
body's house."  One  such  craft  was  pointed  out  to  me 

251 


252      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

which  had  cost  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  But  the  vast 
majority  cost  less  than  one  hundred  dollars,  and  many 
not  half  or  quarter  that  sum.  A  large  portion  of  the 
necessary  materials  can  be  picked  up  along  the  river 
without  expense;  for  boards,  plank,  and  timbers  are 
always  being  carelessly  lost  into  the  water  by  the  men 
who  handle  them  on  the  scows  and  about  the  sawmills. 
The  river  people  themselves  commonly  call  these  float- 
ing homes  "shanty-boats,"  and  that  indicates  their  gen- 
eral character.  They  are  mostly  rudely  built  in  the  first 
place,  get  little  care,  and  in  a  few  years  go  to  pieces. 

One  of  the  first  that  I  investigated  was  at  Baton 
Rouge,  moored  by  the  shore  just  aside  from  the  wharves. 
The  house  part  was  a  single  room  about  8  by  12  feet,  and 
the  family  consisted  of  a  man  and  wife  and  two  daugh- 
ters. They  said  they  had  been  living  on  a  larger  boat, 
but  the  bottom  "got  bad,"  and  it  sank.  The  wreck 
was  close  by,  half  submerged.  The  people  were  from 
the  North,  which  they  had  abandoned  because  the 
woman's  lungs  couldn't  stand  the  cold.  The  house- 
boat afforded  a  cheap  means  of  shifting  to  a  kindlier 
climate,  and  also  served  after  they  got  South  as  an 
economical  home.  There  were  no  taxes  to  pay,  and 
no  rent;  you  could  catch  your  own  firewood,  and  with 
hook  and  line  supply  a  good  share  of  your  own  meat, 
and  these  were  no  mean  advantages  to  a  family  in 
straitened  circumstances. 

A  good  many  boats  have  a  paddle-wheel  at  the  stern 


A   HOUSE-BOAT  DOG 


Houseboat  Life  253 

and  gasoline  power,  and  go  where  they  will,  quite  in- 
dependent of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Such  boats  do 
considerable  business  as  tugs,  towing  other  boats, 
barges,  and  rafts,  and  doing  whatever  small  jobs  come 
their  way.  Certain  of  these  gasoline  craft  are  floating 
sawmills  and  are  known  as  "  drifting  boats."  In  every 
bend  of  the  river  is  lodged  an  enormous  "drift"  of 
floodwood  -  "millions  of  cords,"  explained  a  Cairo 
man.  "And  some  drifts  are  a  mile  across.  Why, 
there's  enough  firewood  in  the  drifts  between  here  and 
Memphis  to  supply  the  whole  United  States  for  six 
months.  The  drifting  boats  make  considerable  money 
dragging  logs  out  of  the  mass,  sawing  them  into 
boards,  and  selling  the  boards  at  the  small  towns 
along." 

There  are  various  other  ways  to  make  profit  out  of 
the  river  wreckage.  Some  men  do  a  good  business 
rescuing  the  ownerless  trash  that  is  afloat  and  working 
it  up  into  cord-wood  or  sawing  it  into  stove  length.  In 
New  Orleans  you  often  see  miniature  woodyards  on 
the  wharves,  and  I  heard  of  men  who  "got  rich"  there 
selling  stove  wood  they  had  manufactured  from  the 
river  rubbish,  twelve  sticks  for  a  nickel. 

I  saw  at  Vicksburg  an  allied  industry,  which  was  the 
conversion  of  stray  cypress  logs  into  shingles.  The  logs, 
as  they  were  caught,  were  tied  alongshore,  and,  lying 
there  in  the  water,  were  laboriously  sawed  into  sections 
of  shingle  length.  When  a  section  had  been  sawed,  it 


254     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

was  rolled  up  on  the  shore  and  split  into  moderate-sized 
blocks,  and  these  were  reduced  with  frow  and  maul  to 
shingles  in  the  rough.  After  that  the  shingles  only 
needed  a  little  shaving  to  smooth  and  taper  them,  and 
then  could  be  packed  and  were  ready  for  sale.  Several 
shingle-makers  were  established  alongshore,  all  negroes, 
and  each  man  doing  business  on  his  own  account.  They 
had  rough  little  shanties  to  work  in  when  the  weather 
was  not  favorable.  I  tried  to  find  out  something  about 
the  rate  of  production  by  this  antique  method,  but  the 
old  shingle-man  with  whom  I  talked,  said,  "I  never 
tried  an  experience  to  see  how  many  I  could  do  in  a 
day." 

He  affirmed  that  he  only  got  a  bare  living  out  of  the 
work,  and  added,  "I'm  a  poor  man,  but  I  got  a  proud 
mind.  If  I  had  de  money  accordin'  to  my  mind  I'd 
be  all  right,  I  do  believe.  What  I  want  now  is  to  see  de 
river  fall  like  de  bottom  gwine  to  drop  out.  I  want  it 
to  git  off  de  farmers'  land.  Dey  ought  to  be  plantin'. 
If  de  water  keep  on  disaway,  dey  won't  be  prosp'rous, 
an*  den  dey  cain't  buy  shingles." 

About  this  time  a  colored  woman  came  down  to  the 
shore  laden  with  a  basket  and  bundles  and  prepared  to 
get  into  a  boat.  Some  distance  off  across  the  water 
was  an  island,  and  among  the  bushes  over  there  were 
a  number  of  houseboats,  in  one  of  which  the  woman 
lived. 

"How's  yo'  man  ?"  asked  the  shingle-maker. 


THE  NEWS 


Houseboat  Life  255 

"Oh,  jes'  so-so,"  was  the  reply. 

"He  been  laid  up  a  long  time  now." 

"Yas,  an'  when  I  think  how  many  been  took  sick  an' 
died  since  I  begun  takin'  keer  o'  him,  I  wonder  dat  he 
am  alive." 

"Hit  yo'  good  nussing,  sister.  Dat's  better'n  a  whole 
lot  o'  dis  hyar  strong  doctor's  medicine." 

"I  know  it;  but  dar's  spells  when  I'm  afraid  I  git 
worried  to  death  he  feel  so  bad  an'  miserable  all  de 
time.  Hit  seem  like  he  not  got  any  kind  o'  patience. 
He  jes'  draggin'  aroun'  complainin',  an'  he  tell  how 
heaven  is  de  Ian'  of  rest,  and  he  ready  to  go  dar.  He 
say  he  doan'  never  want  to  be  ole  unless  he  gwine  to 
git  well." 

"Yo'  mus'  cheer  him  up,  sister,"  advised  the  shingle- 
maker.  "Tell  him  he  gettin'  along  as  well  as  could  be 
expect.  Hit  never  do  to  disencourage  a  sick  person. 
Dey  die  den  anyway." 

Two  of  the  old  man's  boys,  not  yet  in  their  teens, 
were  with  him  and  aided  him  more  or  less,  but  put  in 
most  of  their  time  playing  and  idling.  They  were  not 
interested  in  the  conversation  with  the  houseboat 
woman,  and  they  talked  about  other  matters.  For  in- 
stance, the  older  boy  asked  this  curious  question,  "Ain' 
yo'  never  seen  a  muskeeter  settin' on  a  tree  an' bark  ?" 

"Co'se  I  hain't,"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,"  said  the  first  boy,  "if  he  set  on  de  tree  he  got 
to  set  on  de  bark  too,  ain't  he?" 


256     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  other  boy  could  not  dispute  that  proposition  and 
after  a  little  discussion,  the  first  boy  challenged  his 
comrade  with  the  remark  that  he  could  make  him  say 
"black." 

"No,  yo'  cain't,"  declared  the  second. 

"Yes,  I  kin  —  what  de  colors  of  de  American  flag?" 

"Red,  white,  and  blue,"  responded  the  second  boy. 

"Dar,  yo'  said  blue !"   exclaimed  the  first. 

"But  yo'  tol'  me  yo'  make  me  say  black,"  the  other 
protested. 

"Well,  yo'  done  said  black  now,"  said  the  first  boy 
triumphantly. 

There  was  an  unusual  number  of  shanty-boats  along 
the  Vicksburg  river-front.  The  skipper  of  a  gasoline 
craft  said  most  of  them  were  there  on  account  of  high 
water,  but  they  would  all  "skedaddle"  away  when  the 
river  resumed  its  normal  level.  As  for  himself,  his 
boat  had  been  bringing  wood  from  the  "bayous  and 
swamps,"  and  he  had  "got  a  pretty  good  dose  of 
malaria  back  there,"  and  was  waiting  till  he  felt  better. 

At  Memphis  was  another  flotilla  of  houseboat  refu- 
gees; but  here  many  landspeople  were  among  the  boat 
dwellers.  A  crevasse  had  broken  in  the  levee  across 
the  river,  and  a  vast  amount  of  country  was  flooded. 
Five  thousand  people  had  fled  to  the  Memphis  bluffs, 
and  some  were  living  in  tents  along  shore,  some  in  im- 
provised huts,  and  some  in  houseboats.  "It's  like  an 
ocean  over  thar,"  said  one  of  the  boat  inhabitants  — 


Houseboat  Life  257 

"no  land  anywhar.  I  tell  you  the  farmers  has  a  hard 
time  hyar  in  the  Mississippi  valley,  and  I'm  afraid  the 
South'll  jis'  natcherly  be  ruined.  I  had  a  farm  till 
last  year.  That  was  the  worst  year  ever  known  in  the 
history  of  the  world,  I  believe.  The  flood  come  in 
March  and  kept  raisin*  and  raisin'  till  it  was  higher'n 
we'd  ever  seen  it.  I  had  a  big  fine  house  that  cost  six 
or  seven  hundred  dollars.  It  was  on  posts  five  feet  off 
the  ground,  so  I  thought  it  was  safe;  but  the  water  got 
into  it  and  I  had  to  make  scaffolds  to  walk  around  on. 
Finally  the  water  was  most  up  to  the  eaves,  and  then 
come  a  wind  with  waves  ten  feet  high  that  smashed  the 
windows  and  knocked  down  my  scaffolding  and  set 
tables  and  bureaus  and  everything  afloat.  It  was  dis- 
tressin' !  —  awful !  We  had  such  a  storm  that  ever'one 
thought  me  'n'  my  ole  woman  was  gone  up. 

"Lots  o'  people  were  drowned  jis'  like  rabbits,  an* 
a  good  share  o'  those  that  lef  their  homes  an'  got  away 
had  to  camp  on  the  levee.  It  was  a  dreadful,  cold, 
stormy  time  of  year,  and  thar  was  sickness  an'  acci- 
dents an'  many  deaths  from  the  exposure.  Thar  was 
no  way  to  git  coffins  —  no  way  to  git  nothin'  —  and 
they  had  to  sew  the  bodies  up  in  sacks  with  sand 
enough  put  in  to  make  'em  sink,  and  then  they'd  throw 
'em  in  the  river.  One  woman  whose  brother  was 
buried  that  way  went  crazy. 

"For  our  cattle  and  horses  every  farmer  had  to  build 
a  raft  —  what  we  call  a  stock  stomp.  We'd  have  a 


258     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

fence  around  it,  but  the  critters  would  be  pretty  well 
crowded  on  it  and  they'd  git  to  fightin'  an'  hookin*  an* 
push  each  other  overboard. 

"When  the  water  went  down  thar  was  eighteen 
inches  o'  mud  in  my  house.  It  looked  like  the  home 
of  a  dirt-dauber.  I  bored  auger  holes  in  the  floors  to 
let  the  water  drean  off,  and  me  'n'  three  niggers  worked 
two  days  to  git  the  mud  out.  My  furniture  busted  to 
pieces  or  warped,  so  we  couldn't  hardly  use  it,  the  floors 
swelled  out  of  shape,  the  paint  was  ruined,  and  the 
stuff  we'd  stored  in  the  loft  was  all  mildewed.  It  was 
discouragin'  work  tryin'  to  dry  things  out. 

"The  farm  was  all  cut  to  pieces  and  covered  with 
sand  ridges.  I  wouldn't  rent  it  ag'in,  and  the  man  that 
owned  it  had  to  take  care  of  it  himself.  Usually,  you 
could  get  three  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  watermelons 
off  it  and  twenty  bales  o'  cotton  and  a  thousand  bushel 
o'  corn.  Well,  he  planted  watermelons,  but  they  all 
burnt  up  before  they  got  two  inches  high.  Cotton,  he 
didn't  try,  and  he  only  got  forty  bushel  of  corn,  and  that 
was  nothin'  but  nubbins  —  calf  feed. 

"I'd  had  enough,  and  reckoned  I  was  ready  for  a 
change  of  residence.  After  a  while  I  had  a  chance  to 
buy  a  good  boat  hull  for  two  dollars,  and  by  spending 
twenty  more  I  built  me  a  fine  boat.  I  could  sell  it 
easy  this  year  for  a  hundred  dollars,  and  lots  o'  these 
drowned-out  folks  would  jump  at  the  bargain." 

One  of  the  boats  near  by  where  we  stood  talking  had 


Houseboat  Life  259 

a  sign  painted  on  the  sides  —  "Medicines  for  Sale." 
The  peddling  boat  is  a  recognized  institution,  and  some 
of  them  carry  a  general  stock  of  merchandise  worth 
five  or  ten  thousand  dollars.  Then  there  are  the 
"show  boats,"  the  best  of  which  are  "floating-palaces" 
to  the  eyes  of  the  average  valley  dweller.  "They  have 
talking  machines  on  board,"  said  the  Memphis  man, 
"and  music  and  dancing,  and  they  act  plays.  Some 
of  the  big  ones  can  take  on  several  hundred  people. 
These  opera  boats  travel  all  the  year  round.  In  sum- 
mer they're  up  among  the  Pennsylvania  mines  and  North- 
ern cities,  and  in  winter  they're  among  the  great  planta- 
tions and  towns  of  the  South.  Nice  reserved  seats  cost 
seventy-five  cents  to  a  dollar  and  a  half;  but  most  of 
the  seats  are  jis'  benches  and  only  cost  a  quarter." 

Still  another  type  of  houseboat  life  is  to  be  found  in 
the  "River  Revivalists."  "They  keep  on  the  go,  too," 
declared  my  Memphis  friend,  "and  they  stop  at  land- 
ings along  and  advertise  meetings  on  board.  I  ain't 
much  confidence  in  'em.  Some  are  only  fakirs.  I've 
seen  considerable  much  of  ministers,  and  I've  made 
up  my  mind  that  generally,  ashore  or  afloat,  they've 
taken  up  their  callin'  as  a  business  and  are  workin' 
for  what  thar  is  in  it.  They  beg  every  time  they  look 
at  you.  The  mo'  money  you  got,  the  bigger  Christian 
you  are.  Yes,  sir,  you  shove  up  five  dollars  to  the 
preacher,  and  you  c'n  drink  and  cuss  and  rip  and  tear 
all  you  please." 


260     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  houseboat  industry  that  furnishes  a  living  for 
the  greatest  number  is  fishing,  and  few  of  the  larger 
towns  on  the  river  are  without  some  of  these  houseboat 
fisher-people.  I  became  especially  well  acquainted 
with  them  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ohio.  Most  of  their 
boats  were  moored  near  the  Kentucky  shore,  and  in 
order  to  visit  them  I  rowed  across  the  Ohio  in  a  rough 
little  skifF  I  borrowed  of  a  Cairo  shanty-boat  man.  It 
was  a  one-mile  pull  through  a  yellow  flood  streaked  with 
driftwood.  A  brisk  wind  blew  and  the  waves  heaved 
and  now  and  then  broke  into  a  whitecap.  At  length 
I  reached  land,  tied  my  boat  and  followed  the  shore 
up-stream  on  foot,  passing  in  places  through  dense 
groves  of  cottonwoods  and  again  along  strips  of  ex- 
posed beach.  Both  among  the  trees  and  outside  were 
shanty-boats  and  a  variety  of  little  dwellings,  the  lat- 
ter all  on  stilts,  perched  well  above  the  clutch  of  the 
floods. 

The  boat  families  often  had  chickens,  and  owned 
a  dog  or  two  and  possibly  a  cat.  All  these  creatures 
get  used  to  their  floating  habitations  and  accept 
them  as  the  natural  thing.  One  man  pointed  out  to 
me  three  chickens  about  a  fortnight  old;  and  they 
were  orphans,  he  said,  with  no  mother  hen  to  look 
after  their  welfare,  and  yet  they  were  quite  able  to  take 
care  of  themselves  on  water  or  land.  In  fair  weather 
they  spent  most  of  their  time  scratching  around  and 
picking  up  a  living  on  the  shore,  but  they  recognized 


Houseboat  Life  261 

the  boat  as  their  home,  and  would  walk  up  and  down 
the  long  gang-plank  as  carefully  and  safely  as  any 
cautious  human  being  could. 

It  was  the  same  way  with  the  shanty-boat  children, 
he  affirmed.  They  soon  learned  the  necessities  and 
dangers  of  the  situation  and  nothing  ever  happened 
to  them.  The  bit  of  deck  fore  and  aft  was  never  pro- 
tected with  railings,  and  there  was  naught  to  prevent 
the  careless  child  from  tumbling  overboard;  but  these 
children  were  not  careless  in  that  respect  and  had  just 
as  few  mishaps  as  if  they  lived  on  land. 

Alongshore,  neighboring  the  boats,  were  many  nets, 
lines,  and  other  fishing-tackle.  Some  of  the  men  were 
overhauling  their  tackle,  others  were  loafing,  still  others 
were  out  in  their  boats  pulling  up  the  lines  they  had 
set.  Cairo  furnished  a  good  market,  and  there  was  not 
the  least  difficulty  in  turning  a  catch  of  fish  into  money. 

I  had  a  long  talk  with  a  farmer  whose  house  was  on 
the  bank.  He  was  sitting  on  his  porch  reading  a 
newspaper  as  placid  and  contented  as  if  he  had  not  a  care 
in  the  world.  The  day  was  pleasant,  and  everything 
was  favorable  for  work,  and  he  said  he  had  "right 
smart  of  ground  to  make  ready";  but  it  was  Friday, 
and  the  week  was  so  far  gone  he  thought  it  hardly 
worth  while  to  begin  farming  until  Monday.  Besides, 
he  felt  obliged  to  watch  the  river.  It  was  eating  into 
the  bank  a  few  rods  away,  opposite  his  house,  and  the 
situation  was  not  without  danger. 


262     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Several  houseboats  were  in  view.  The  man  was  an 
old  resident,  and  he  knew  the  river  people  well.  "I 
been  acquainted  with  a  heap  of  'em/'  said  he,  "and 
ninety  per  cent  of  'em  are  as  honest  and  good-hearted 
as  you  could  ask.  It'd  surprise  you  what  fine,  intel- 
ligent people  there  are  among  'em.  Now  the  man  in 
this  hyar  first  boat  hyar  —  his  father  was  one  of  the 
leading  men  in  Paducy.  He's  been  well  raised  and 
educated  and  is  as  refined  a  man  as  there  is  in  the 
country.  But  he  got  to  drinkin'  and  so  went  on  the 
river. 

"Another  thing  that'd  surprise  you  is  the  amount  of 
money  some  o'  these  fellows  make  —  often  twenty- five 
and  fifty  dollars  in  a  day  —  yes,  sir !  If  they  could 
ketch  fish  the  year  round  they'd  be  millionnaires ;  but 
from  the  end  of  June  to  February  it's  kind  o'  dull  and 
fish  ain't  at  all  plenty.  Then,  too,  when  they  make 
money,  most  of  'em  drink  it  up.  Whiskey  is  the  only 
thing  that  keeps  'em  from  gettin'  rich." 

The  shanty-boat  men,  themselves,  did  not  speak 
very  enthusiastically  of  their  profits.  Many  fish  are 
caught,  but  they  are  not  nearly  as  plentiful  as  a  score 
of  years  ago.  The  law  interferes,  too,  and  the  boat- 
dwellers  cannot  catch  whenever  and  wherever  they 
please.  For  instance,  as  one  man  explained,  "We 
ain't  allowed  in  the  spring  to  put  wing-nets  back  in  the 
woods  across  the  lakes  and  slues  where  the  fish  spawn. 
If  we  do,  the  officers  raise  all  sorts  of  hell  with  us, 


Houseboat  Life  263 

though  they  take  no  notice  of  the  farmers  doin'  the 
same  sort  o'  thing." 

The  autumn  is  the  shanty-boat  season.  "Some- 
times," said  the  man  I  have  just  quoted,  "you  c'n 
count  ten  or  fifteen  in  sight  all  at  the  same  time  floatin' 
down-stream.  Maybe  a  boat  will  carry  a  whole  family, 
movin'  with  their  cows,  hogs,  and  ever'thing,  and  the 
household  plunder'll  be  piled  all  over.  But  usually 
thar's  only  a  bunch  o'  men  on  board.  Perhaps  they'll 
be  mechanics.  Work  has  played  out  an'  they're  goin' 
South  to  hunt;  or  they  got  the  idee  it's  too  cold  up 
North  and  they're  followin'  the  summer.  Thar's  as 
fine  mechanics  as  thar  is  in  the  country  gone  down  past 
hyar  thataway.  Wherever  night  overtakes  'em,  they 
tie  up  in  some  little  pocket  along  shore  that  makes  a 
harbor  for  'em,  and  thar  they're  at  home.  It's  kind 
o'  risky  navigatin'  for  a  greenhorn.  You  got  to  look 
out  and  not  git  ketched  in  a  storm  and  have  your  boat 
swamped  against  the  bank,  and  you  got  to  be  careful 
if  you  camp  on  shore  whar  you  stop.  First  time  I  was 
on  the  river  I  went  down  with  two  other  men  in  a  skiff, 
and  afternoons  we'd  stop  about  four  o'clock  and  gather 
up  driftwood  for  a  fire  and  to  make  a  windbreak.  Once 
we  stayed  in  some  cottonwoods  near  which  the  river 
made  an  eddy,  and  we  put  up  a  little  hut  about  fifty 
feet  back  from  the  water;  but  during  the  night  the  bank 
and  big  trees  all  caved  off  so  one  corner  of  our  shanty 
overhung  the  river. 


264     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

"When  they  get  down  the  river  the  boats  ain't  worth 
much.  Very  likely  you  can't  get  more'n  thirty-five  dol- 
lars for  a  boat  that  cost  a  hundred.  Lots  of  'em  are 
sold  for  about  what  they're  worth  for  kindling-wood. 
But  then,  if  a  man  is  tired  of  his  boat,  he's  ready  to  give 
it  away  merely  to  git  shet  of  it.  All  he  wants  is  to  sell 
for  enough  money  to  take  him  back  home;  and  the 
next  year  he  may  build  another  and  do  the  very  same 
trick  again.  I  sometimes  wonder  what  becomes  of  all 
the  shanty-boats.  Very  few  ever  go  North,  and  thar's 
been  enough  gone  down  to  block  up  the  river  from  the 
gulf  to  Memphis." 

To  the  landspeople  of  the  valley  the  river  is  some- 
times a  demon  of  destruction;  but  to  the  houseboat 
tribe  its  aspect  is  seldom  otherwise  than  friendly.  It 
is  a  bountiful  fairy,  a  stream  of  romance  full  of  change 
and  fascination.  Whether  it  rises  or  falls,  it  carries  the 
houseboats  on  its  bosom.  It  is  a  great  highway, 
and  from  the  borders  the  boat-dwellers  watch  its  varied 
traffic.  It  brings  much  floating  drift  from  which 
they  can  pick  whatever  is  of  use  to  them,  and  it  fur- 
nishes easy  means  of  moving  to  new  quarters  hundreds 
of  miles  away  if  that  is  their  desire.  Elbow  room 
and  home  comforts  are  in  many  ways  lacking  on 
the  houseboats;  and  yet  people  who  once  adopt  the 
river  life  seldom  abandon  it.  They  gain  a  living  with- 
out much  trouble,  are  care-free  and  bohemian,  and 
there  is  a  charm  about  the  water  that  keeps  them 


Houseboat  Life  265 

content  with  what,  to   an  outsider,  looks  like  a  very 
rude  existence. 

NOTE. — Wherever  you  stop  along  the  Mississippi  be  on  the  watch 
for  the  houseboats.  They  are  a  perpetual  delight  to  the  lover  of  the  pic- 
turesque, and  the  life  of  their  inmates  is  unfailingly  interesting.  Indeed, 
these  gypsies  of  the  water  seem  to  stir  some  primitive  impulse  in  one 
and  keep  the  fancy  on  tiptoe.  You  can,  if  you  choose,  build  or  buy 
a  boat  yourself  and  float  with  the  current  down  the  stream.  The 
most  favorable  places  for  seeing  the  boats,  judging  from  my  own 
experience,  are  St.  Paul,  Cairo,  Memphis,  and  Vicksburg. 


XV 

THE    HEADWATERS   OF   THE   GREAT   RIVER 

ON  my  way  north  I  stopped  at  those  two  big 
thriving  cities,  St.  Paul  and  Minneapolis,  which 
as  they  are  only  ten  miles  apart  barely  escape 
forming  a  single  community.  The  river  had  dwindled 
into  a  very  moderate-sized  stream;  but  at  Minneapolis, 
where  it  makes  the  long  foaming  leap  of  St.  Anthony's 
Falls,  it  is  still  impressive  and  powerful.  The  river 
scenery  at  the  Falls  seemed  wonderfully  wild  and 
chaotic  on  the  uncertain,  showery  day  that  I  loitered 
along  the  stream.  There  were  long  strings  of  booms 
and  floating  logs,  and  there  were  series  of  dams  and 
canals  and  sluiceways,  and  there  were  great  bridges 
leaping  across  the  channel  in  all  directions.  The  banks 
were  lined  with  immense  flour  mills  and  grain  elevators 
and  lofty,  smoking  chimneys,  and  these  structures 
loomed  on  the  rocky  bluffs  through  the  mists  and  murk, 
menacing  and  tremendous.  The  roar  of  the  waters 
was  in  my  ears,  the  throb  and  rattle  of  machinery,  the 
shrieking  and  rushing  of  the  trains  as  they  glided  along 
the  verges  of  the  cliffs  or  across  the  bridges.  Alto- 
gether I  felt  as  if  this  might  be  the  borderland  of  Hades. 

266 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          267 

When  I  continued  my  journey  I  went  to  the  jumping- 
off  place,  that  is,  to  Bemidji,  the  town  farthest  north 
amid  the  network  of  lakes  which  forms  the  source  of 
the  great  river.  Seven  or  eight  years  before  this  had 
been  the  outskirts  of  the  wilderness,  invaded  by  none 
save  a  few  wandering  surveyors,  hunters,  and  lumber- 
men. Now,  Bemidji  was  a  city  of  four  thousand 
people,  and  more  were  constantly  coming.  New 
buildings  were  going  up,  and  you  could  see  the  place 
growing  day  by  day  and  outspreading  itself  into  the 
half-savage  woodlands.  The  streets  for  the  most 
part  ran  through  a  forest  of  Jack  pine;  but  few  trees 
were  left  in  the  business  centre.  There  you  found  rows 
of  stores  and  saloons  and  hotels,  some  of  them  substan- 
tial buildings,  and  others  frail  and  hasty  structures 
that  will  soon  have  to  be  replaced.  There  was  the 
same  difference  in  the  dwellings.  A  few  were  well 
built  and  handsome;  but  a  great  number  were  not 
much  more  than  temporary  shelters.  Often  they 
rested  on  wooden  blocks,  and  were  banked  about 
with  dirt  in  winter  to  keep  the  cold  winds  from 
blowing  beneath  them.  The  streets  of  the  suburbs 
were  thinly  grassed,  but  the  thoroughfares  at  the 
centre  were  rutted  sand  and  dust  bestrewn  with  litter. 
Conspicuous  in  the  midst  of  the  business  section  was 
a  swamp  with  its  stagnant  pools  and  rotting  logs, 
its  stumps  and  sprouting  of  bushes.  A  great  saw- 
mill was  the  chief  source  of  the  town's  prosperity, 


268     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  the  place  was  full  of  the  rough  mill-workers  and 
woodsmen. 

I  got  the  impression  from  some  of  the  persons  I 
interviewed  that  life  was  held  cheap  at  Bemidji,  and 
that  there  were  frequent  drunken  quarrels  and  shoot- 
ings, and  that  the  saloons  were  both  the  social  and 
political  centre  of  the  town.  "They're  never  shut," 
I  was  told,  "and  a  feller  can  celebrate  here  about  as 
he  pleases.  We  want  his  money,  and  we  won't  stand 
for  havin'  any  man  arrested.  Yes,  this  is  a  wide-open 
town,  and  you  are  free  to  booze  and  gamble  as  long 
as  your  cash  lasts.  You  can  get  any  sort  of  a  game  you 
want  —  shell  game,  hand  game,  cards  —  everything." 

This  is  scarcely  the  whole  truth.  The  town  in  its 
beginning  was  decidedly  tough,  but  there  has  been 
constant  and  rapid  improvement.  As  one  of  its  lead- 
ing citizens  explained  to  me,  "At  first  I  could  almost 
count  on  my  fingers  the  inhabitants  who  had  a  whole- 
some respect  for  law  and  order.  Saloon-keepers  and 
gamblers  and  their  following  were  in  the  majority,  and 
drunks  were  not  considered  a  serious  proposition.  Yet 
though  you  could  occasionally  see  a  drunken  fight,  and 
though  sometimes  a  man  would  flourish  a  gun  at 
another,  we  have  had  only  a  single  murder  in  our 
history.  The  fact  is,  the  lumber-jack,  unlike  the  cow- 
boy and  miner,  rarely  carries  a  gun.  He  is  neverthe- 
less a  difficult  fellow  to  deal  with.  The  chief  ambition 
in  life  of  the  professional  jack  is  to  keep  every  dis- 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          269 

tillery  in  the  United  States  running  to  its  full  capacity. 
His  calling  requires  a  lot  of  brawn  and  brute  energy, 
and  there  is  not  a  harder-working  man  on  earth;  but 
when  he  comes  out  of  the  woods  he  wants  nothing  ex- 
cept lawlessness  and  plenty  of  whiskey,  and  he  looks  for 
a  place  where  he  can  spend  his  money  and  make  his 
presence  known.  He  used  to  resort  to  Bemidji,  but 
since  restrictions  have  been  put  on  his  behavior,  he  has 
made  for  smaller  towns  where  he  can  occupy  the  centre 
of  the  stage.  With  his  going  there  disappeared  many 
of  the  low  dives  he  delights  to  frequent.  A  half  dozen 
years  ago  we  had  forty-six  saloons  and  only  two  thousand 
people.  Now  twice  the  number  of  inhabitants  get  along 
with  thirty  saloons. 

"Any  stranger  who  visited  our  town  in  its  rougher 
days,  and  heard  a  jack  let  out  one  of  his  yells,  went 
away  and  told  of  the  terrible  state  of  affairs  existing 
here,  and  we  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  living  down 
the  fame  the  town  thus  acquired.  Gambling  is  about 
the  only  serious  evil  not  well  under  control,  and  of  that 
there  is  not  one  quarter  what  there  was  formerly.  No, 
this  is  not  a  blood-and-thunder  place.  It  is  a  natural 
business  centre  and  has  drawn  to  it  an  excellent  type 
of  citizens,  and  in  many  respects  we  have  all  the  social, 
religious,  and  educational  advantages  that  you  could 
get  anywhere  in  a  town  of  its  size." 

The  place  even  has  its  Salvation  Army.  I  stopped 
to  listen  to  a  squad  of  the  gospel  soldiers  one  evening. 


270     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

They  had  lined  up  before  a  brightly  lighted  saloon  with 
their  big  drum  and  tamborine  and  guitar,  and  they  sang 
their  songs  and  made  their  appeals.  Right  in  front  of 
them  sat  four  little  girls  on  the  edge  of  the  board  walk, 
evidently  fascinated  by  the  uniforms  and  music;  and 
quite  a  group  of  men  gathered,  attentive  and  impressed. 
Yet  when  the  collection  was  taken  up  the  results  were 
only  twelve  cents,  which  I  thought  the  soldiers  must  find 
quite  disheartening. 

The  town  borders  a  lake  of  the  same  name  that 
is  very  pretty,  with  its  encircling  of  green  forests  and 
its  rafts  and  rowboats.  Sometimes  I  would  hear  the 
tremulous  laughter  of  a  loon  coming  over  the  water, 
and  lending  emphasis  to  the  wildness  of  the  environ- 
ment. 

Where  the  river  enters  the  lake  is  a  favorite  fish- 
ing place.  A  few  rods  up-stream  is  a  bridge  that 
was  occupied  all  day  by  a  motley  crowd  watching  the 
lines  they  had  dropped  into  the  current  below.  Many 
other  fisherfolk,  old  and  young,  male  and  female, 
were  to  be  seen  along  the  shores  or  rowing  around 
in  the  vicinity.  Indeed,  it  seemed,  with  such  a  con- 
course of  people  intent  on  the  sport,  that  the  fish 
would  be  exterminated. 

"Oh,  no!"  responded  a  fisherman  to  whom  I  hinted 
this  fear,  "the  country  here  can't  be  fished  out.  We 
got  a  string  of  lakes  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
and  there's  breeding-places  without  number  that's 


UNIVERSITY 

of 

CAI  -FfF' 


A  BATEAU 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          271 

never  disturbed.  You  won't  find  no  better  fishing  region 
in  the  United  States.  I've  ketched  pike  here  that  would 
weigh  seven  or  eight  pounds  and  pickerel  that  would 
weigh  twenty  pounds.  You  hardly  ever  see  any  one 
going  home  with  less  than  a  dozen  or  fifteen  pounds  of 
fish,  and  often  three  or  four  times  that  much. 

"  You  ain't  from  Chicago,  be  you  ?  A  feller  from 
there  was  talkin'  with  me  yesterday,  and  I  never  met 
such  a  crazy  chump.  He  had  a  little  light  pole  with  a 
reel  on  to  it,  and  he  had  a  handnet  and  a  fish-basket  and 
all  kinds  o'  flies  and  fixin's.  He  was  fussin'  around  the 
whole  time  like  a  settin'  hen  off  its  nest,  and  he  tol'  me 
my  way  of  ketchin'  fish  was  jus'  butchery  and  no  sport 
at  all.  He  said  you  shouldn't  pull  a  fish  right  out  when 
it  got  on  your  hook.  His  way  was  to  reel  it  up  and  let 
it  out  and  keep  on  a-foolin'  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or 
so  before  he  landed  it,  even  if  it  was  nothin'  but  a  little 
sunfish." 

The  river  at  Bemidji  was  no  more  than  a  creek, 
crossed  by  a  one-span  wooden  bridge,  yet  the  distance  to 
the  remotest  forest  lakelet,  whence  the  stream  starts, 
is  fully  half  a  hundred  miles.  One  day  I  followed  the 
river  far  back  into  the  woods,  keeping  for  the  most  part 
to  a  rough  road.  The  stream,  though  narrow,  ran 
swift  and  deep  and  seemed  by  no  means  an  unworthy 
beginning  of  the  mighty  river  it  was  to  become.  It  was 
full  of  logs  ever  gliding  from  above  and  slipping  away 
beyond  sight  at  the  next  bend.  How  smoothly  and 


272     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

mysteriously  they  moved  through  the  silent  wilderness, 
with  only  a  soft  plunk,  plunk,  as  they  happened  to 
strike  one  another !  Here  and  there  on  the  bank  was 
a  man  armed  with  a  pole  and  canthook,  standing  guard, 
ready  to  act  if  the  logs  showed  an  inclination  to  form  a 
jam. 

I  had  a  chat  with  one  of  these  men.  "The  stream 
here  has  only  been  drove  six  years,"  he  said.  "We  start 
the  logs  every  spring  as  soon  as  the  ice  is  gone  from 
the  lakes,  which  is  about  May  first,  and  we're  gettin' 
out  more  timber  this  season  than  ever.  That's  be- 
cause the  demand  and  the  price  has  been  increasin.' 
We  cut  everything  now  —  even  balsams  and  Jack 
pine.  We  didn't  use  to  look  at  anything  like  that.  I 
presume  they  do  some  flim-flam  at  the  mills  and  tuck 
in  a  good  deal  of  it  with  other  better  timber  and  sell  it 
to  them  that  don't  know  the  difference.  The  logs 
floatin'  down  now  average  pretty  poor  compared  with 
what  they  did  at  first.  The  class  of  men  we're  gettin' 
in  the  woods  at  present  to  do  the  cuttin'  has  something 
to  do  with  it.  They're  mostly  Scandinavians  not  long 
from  home,  and  while  they  have  orders  not  to  cut  trees 
too  small  or  crooked,  they  ain't  got  sense  to  recognize 
a  straight  tree  when  they  see  it,  and  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand about  size." 

As  far  as  I  went  I  saw  no  fine  woodland.  The  chop- 
pers had  been  there  before  me  and  left  little  but  ragged 
brush  and  sapplings  and  stumps.  The  only  remnants 


The  Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          273 

of  primeval  woods  that  had  escaped  at  all  intact  were 
occasional  dark  patches  of  Jack  pine.  The  breeze  kept 
the  tall,  thickly  crowded  trees  in  these  groves  gently 
swaying,  and  whispered  in  the  foliage  a  mystic  vernal 
melody,  as  if  of  mourning  over  the  forest's  doom. 

As  I  went  on,  I  began  to  catch  the  odor  of  smoke,  and 
the  woodland  gradually  became  quite  hazy.  At  length 
I  passed  over  a  ridge  and  I  could  see  on  ahead  glints 
of  flame,  and  hear  the  sharp  crackling  of  the  fire  as  it 
licked  up  the  dry  leaves  and  grasses.  The  smoke  was 
now  dense  and  choking.  I  turned  aside,  hoping  to 
escape  from  the  murk  and  get  around  the  flames;  but 
I  had  not  gone  far  when  a  wind  caught  the  fire  and  sent 
it  racing  over  the  ground  so  swiftly  and  threateningly 
that  I  took  to  my  heels.  Presently  I  found  another 
road  that  led  to  the  opposite  side  of  a  lake,  and  there  I 
met  a  teamster  on  his  way  to  town  from  a  logging  camp 
forty  miles  back  in  the  woods.  I  concluded  I  had  gone 
far  enough  and  he  invited  me  to  keep  him  company.  He 
had  four  horses  hitched  to  a  big  springless  truck  wagon, 
and  the  ride  was  no  joke.  We  were  on  the  jolt  all  the 
time  —  now  into  ruts,  now  over  humps  and  roots,  and 
now  encountering  a  stump  with  a  sudden  collision  that 
would  slew  the  wagon  sidewise  and  threaten  to  shoot 
us  off  from  the  lofty  seat.  I  hung  on  for  dear  life. 

"This  ain't  no  asphalt  road,"  said  my  companion. 
"It's  jus'  a  tote  road,  and  farther  up  the  valley  it's  a 
dern  sight  worse  than  it  is  here.  But  you  needn't 


274     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

be  afraid;  I  got  the  seat  wired  on  so  that  won't  fly 
off." 

He  gave  his  horses  pretty  constant  encouragement 
by  swearing  at  them,  and  now  and  then  launched  his 
long  whiplash  at  them  with  a  startling  crack.  He  told 
how  three  weeks  previous  he  had  tipped  over  his  load 
as  he  was  driving  across  a  portion  of  the  road  that  was 
flooded.  He  rescued  his  goods  and  extricated  himself 
as  well  as  he  could,  but  was  so  delayed  that  night  over- 
took him  in  the  forest. 

"Next  thing  I  knew,"  said  he,  "I  lost  the  trail  and 
couldn't  find  it  again.  So  I  camped  and  waited  for 
morning.  The  wolves  got  scent  of  me,  and  I  guess 
there  was  a  hundred  of  'em  sneakin'  around  there. 
They  have  a  pretty  lonesome  sort  of  a  howl,  and  it 
wa'n't  pleasant.  Last  winter  in  the  chopper's  camp 
we'd  hear  'em  every  night;  but  they  was  so  shy  we 
didn't  often  see  'em." 

We  passed  two  or  three  tiny  farms  carved  out  of  the 
wilderness.  The  settlers  had  ploughed  a  little  land  and 
erected  log  cabins  accompanied  by  huddles  of  diminu- 
tive outbuildings.  I  could  discover  slight  encourage- 
ment for  agriculture,  and  said  to  the  driver,  "This  soil 
looks  too  poor  and  sandy  to  pay  for  cultivating." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "you  couldn't  raise  an  umbrella 
on  it,  say  nothin'  of  crops.  When  the  lumber  is  gone 
the  white  folks  might  as  well  get  out  of  this  country 
and  leave  it  to  the  Indians.  There's  a  good  many 


THE  FOREST  FIRE 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          275 

Indians  workin'  on  the  river,  but  they  ain't  steady. 
Soon  as  eight  or  ten  dollars  is  due  'em  they're  ready  to 
leave.  If  an  Indian  sticks  to  his  job  any  length  of  time 
he's  got  white  blood  in  him.  There  ain't  much  in- 
dustry in  the  full-bloods.  In  the  first  place,  they  ain't 
got  no  strength.  Look  at  the  little  leg  on  'em  —  jus' 
about  as  big  as  your  wrist.  All  the  work  they  want  to 
do  is  to  hunt  and  fish.  They've  been  brought  up  that 
way,  and  you  can't  change  'em.  If  the  government 
gives  an  Indian  a  good  house  he's  pretty  apt  to  put  his 
horse  in  it  and  keep  on  livin'  in  his  wigwam  himself. 
One  thing  they  like  to  do  is  to  pick  wild  cranberries  and 
sell  'em  in  the  towns.  That  job  suits  'em  because  while 
they're  pickin'  they  can  be  all  together  having  a  pow- 
wow. They  feel  good  then.  They're  great  hands  for 
stealin'  -  -  but  I  don't  know  as  they're  any  worse  in  that 
respect  than  people  generally.  I  know  whites  who, 
when  they  get  a  chance  to  steal,  will  only  leave  what  they 
can't  carry  off.  The  Indians  ain't  so  graspin'  as  that. 
'The  only  time  we've  had  any  serious  trouble  with  'em 
here  was  in  1898.  They  had  got  some  whiskey  and 
carried  it  to  their  reservation.  The  marshal  followed 
'em  and  tried  to  make  arrests,  and  they  resisted.  So 
the  troops  was  called  out,  and  a  drunken  commander 
took  a  little  band  of  soldiers  down  in  the  swamps  where 
the  Indians  were.  One  of  the  men  stumbled  and  his 
gun  went  off.  Then  the  Indians  thought  they  was 
bein'  assaulted,  and  they  begun  firing  from  ambush. 


276     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

A  major  and  nine  men  was  killed ;  but  there  was  no  need 
of  it.  They're  a  poor  degraded  people,  and  one  white 
is  good  for  a  dozen  of  'em  if  he  understands  'em.  Yet 
after  that  shootin'  in  the  swamps  the  settlers  all  around 
was  in  a  panic,  and  they  built  forts  out  of  stumps  and 
logs  and  dirt  to  protect  their  villages  and  did  all  sorts 
of  foolish  things." 

Everybody  in  the  north  country  had  their  ideas  about 
the  Indians,  and  these  ideas  were  not  usually  very 
flattering.  Probably  the  fairest  opinion  expressed  to 
me  was  that  of  a  man  interested  in  the  lumber  busi- 
ness, who  had  been  in  the  region  for  a  third  of  a  century. 
"I  suppose,"  said  he,  "you  think  it's  pretty  resky  livin' 
where  there's  so  many  Indians  around;  but  as  far  as 
they  are  concerned  a  family  is  as  safe  here  as  in  New 
York  City.  I've  traded  with  'em  and  trusted  'em  ever 
since  I've  been  here  and  they  always  do  as  they  say.  If 
they  steal  it's  only  for  their  immediate  wants.  We 
sometimes  have  as  much  as  two  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  goods  in  our  lumber  camp  that  we  leave  there  with- 
out guard  after  we  get  through  the  winter's  chopping. 
The  Indians  could  help  themselves  easy,  but  the  only 
thing  I  ever  lost  was  a  five-gallon  keg  of  syrup.  Later 
an  Indian  came  and  told  me  he  took  it  because  he  had 
nothin'  to  eat.  He  promised  to  kill  me  some  deer  in 
the  fall  to  pay  for  it,  and  he  did. 

"The  Indians  don't  as  a  rule  cultivate  a  very  close 
friendship  with  us.  That's  partly  because  they're  a 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          277 

different  kind  of  people,  and  partly  because  their  ex- 
periences on  the  frontier  with  the  white  men  have  not 
been  altogether  happy.  The  adventurers  who  first 
came  into  the  country  were  mostly  rough  and  un- 
scrupulous, and  all  they  cared  about  was  to  grab  what 
they  could  for  themselves.  The  impression  the  Ind- 
ians got  from  them  of  the  white  race  was  not  very 
rosy,  and  though  whites  of  a  better  class  have  come  in 
contact  with  the  Indians  since,  there's  plenty  of  crooked- 
ness yet,  and  I  don't  blame  the  Indians  for  being  sus- 
picious." 

I  became  a  good  deal  interested  in  what  I  heard  of 
the  Indians  and  decided  I  would  attempt  a  closer 
acquaintance  with  them.  There  was  an  Indian  settle- 
ment down  at  Cass  Lake,  and  thither  I  journeyed.  I 
stopped  at  a  town  which  resembled  Bemidji  in  appear- 
ance and  in  situation,  except  that  it  was  a  mile  removed 
from  the  lake.  On  the  sandhills  near  the  water  was 
an  Indian  hamlet  of  a  dozen  log  cabins  dotted  irregu- 
larly along  the  ridges,  and  among  them  were  certain 
diminutive  patches  of  corn  and  potatoes,  with  once  in 
a  while  a  few  rows  of  beets,  carrots,  and  cucumbers. 
Some  dwellings  had  a  little  firewood  out  in  front,  but 
never  a  supply  that  looked  at  all  thrifty  or  enterprising. 
Usually  there  was  a  stump  handy  where  fish  were 
cleaned,  and  the  ground  about  was  strewn  with  fish- 
heads  and  scales,  bits  of  rabbit  fur  and  duck  feathers. 
At  the  foot  of  the  sand-bluffs  was  a  shallow  well  which 


278     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

supplied  the  entire  village.  It  was  roughly  boarded 
around,  and  was  accompanied  by  a  stick  with  a  crotch 
at  one  end  that  was  used  in  lowering  and  pulling  up  the 
pails.  The  women  brought  tubs  from  their  cabins  and 
did  their  washing  by  the  well  when  the  weather  per- 
mitted. Not  far  away  was  a  little,  mound-shaped  wig- 
wam scarcely  high  enough  for  a  grown  person  to  stand 
upright  in  it.  The  framework  was  covered  with  blank- 
ets, and  pine  bushes  had  been  cut  and  leaned  against 
the  sides  to  keep  the  blankets  in  place.  There  was  a 
fire  outside  near  which  a  man  was  squatted  scraping 
the  hair  off  from  a  deerskin  that  later  would  be  trans- 
formed into  moccasins.  Beside  the  man  sat  a  squaw 
holding  a  pappoose  in  her  lap.  She  apparently  had  some 
cooking  under  way,  for  over  the  fire  hung  a  pail  sus- 
pended from  a  stake  thrust  slanting  into  the  ground. 
It  was  the  most  rudely  primitive  family  scene  I  had  ever 
beheld. 

Up  in  the  village  I  made  friends  with  a  young  Indian 
who  agreed  to  take  me  out  to  one  of  the  islands  in  the 
lake  where  I  could  see  virgin  forest  that  had  never  been 
disturbed  by  the  axe  of  the  choppers.  My  Indian's 
name  was  Ben.  He  was  a  flat-chested,  slouch-figured 
fellow,  with  one  shoulder  higher  than  the  other  and 
some  ugly-looking  scars  on  his  neck.  These  scars,  he 
explained,  were  the  results  of  a  fight  of  a  fortnight 
previous  with  another  Indian.  "I  was  workin'  on  the 
logs  then,"  said  Ben,  "and  he  V  me  was  takin'  a  raft 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          279 

down  the  lake.  He  got  mad  and  give  me  two  or  three 
cuts  with  a  little  knife  he  had;  but  I  hit  him  under 
the  chin  and  knocked  him  off  into  the  water.  I  wouldn't 
let  him  on  to  the  raft  again,  and  he  had  to  swim  to  shore. 
He  toP  me  as  he  swum  away  that  he  was  goin'  to  kill 
me,  but  I  ain't  seen  him  since.  I  sprained  my  arm 
fightin'  with  him,  and  it  ain't  strong  enough  for  me  to 
go  to  work  yet." 

Ben  owned  a  rowboat,  and  after  padlocking  his  cabin 
door  he  shouldered  the  oars  and  led  the  way  across  a 
swampy,  brushy  meadow  to  the  lake  shore.  My  guide 
bailed  out  the  boat  with  a  leaky  tin  can  and  we  rowed 
far  out  into  the  lake  against  the  wind  and  the  dashing 
waves.  In  certain  places  the  water  was  beginning  to 
be  hidden  with  sproutings  of  wild  rice,  thrusting  up 
from  shallows  that  were  sometimes  only  a  few  inches 
deep,  and  sometimes  fully  two  yards.  Later  the  rice 
would  grow  tall  and  thick  and  almost  impenetrable.  In 
October,  when  the  grain  is  ripe,  the  grassy  jungles 
furnish  ideal  feeding  and  lurking-places  for  the  ducks 
and  other  water  fowls.  But  what  is  of  more  importance 
the  wild  rice  is  a  staple  food  of  the  Indians.  Two  men 
in  a  birch  canoe  can  gather  seven  or  eight  bushels  in  a 
day.  One  man  sits  behind  and  paddles  and  the  other 
bends  the  rice  stalks  over  the  boat,  first  from  this  side, 
then  from  that,  and  raps  them  with  a  stick,  and  the  rice 
grain  comes  rattling  into  the  bottom  of  the  canoe. 

After    the    harvest    has    been    secured    and    carried 


280     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

home,  a  fire  is  built  on  the  ground,  and  the  rice,  a  little 
at  a  time,  is  put  in  a  kettle  and  held  over  the  blaze  and 
allowed  to  scorch  slightly.  Near  by,  a  hole  is  scooped 
and  a  big  kettle  set  in  it.  This  is  filled  half  full  of 
scorched  rice,  and  a  man  takes  off  his  shoes  and  stock- 
ings and  tramps  about  in  the  kettle  to  loosen  the  husks. 
Lastly  the  grain  is  transferred  to  a  large  pan  and  win- 
nowed by  shaking  it  in  the  wind,  and  then  it  is  stored 
in  sacks  ready  for  use. 

When  we  reached  the  shore  of  the  island  we  found  a 
faint  footpath,  and  after  following  it  for  a  time  came 
to  a  sheltered  glade  where  the  Indians  every  spring 
came  to  make  maple  sugar.  Here  was  a  small  shanty 
in  which  were  great  numbers  of  birch  bark  sap  dishes, 
and  several  casks  full  of  spouts.  The  sap  dishes  were 
oblong  receptacles  that  would  hold  three  or  four  quarts. 
The  bent-up  ends  were  tied  in  place  with  thongs  of 
basswood  bark,  and  slight  cracks  and  holes  were  mended 
with  pitch.  The  spouts  were  split  out  of  cedar,  and 
were  a  foot  long,  two  inches  broad,  and  one-fourth  of  an 
inch  thick.  They  were  slightly  rounded  and  sharpened 
to  a  flat  edge  at  one  end.  The  trees  were  tapped  by 
making  a  V-shaped  cut  with  an  axe,  below  which  an 
incision  was  made  with  a  round-edged  chisel  to  receive 
the  spout.  The  sugar  which  the  Indians  manufacture 
is  finely  granulated  and  is  put  up  in  stout  birch  bark 
receptacles  shaped  like  a  fish  basket,  with  a  bulging 
bottom  and  a  neat  cover.  These  baskets  hold  about 


The  Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          281 

sixty  pounds  each.  Quite  a  party,  including  squaws  as 
well  as  men,  worked  together  and  made  the  maple  woods 
their  home  while  the  sap  run  lasted. 

This  portion  of  the  island  was  grown  up  to  hard- 
wood, but  farther  on  were  pines,  tall  and  straight 
and  clean-trunked,  worthy  pillars  of  the  forest  temple. 
There  was  a  light  undergrowth  of  saplings,  and  many 
fallen  tree  trunks,  upturned  roots,  and  a  tangle  of  dead 
branches.  Quiet  reigned,  and  the  sunlight  flickered 
down  through  the  tree-tops  on  to  the  thin  green  foliage 
of  the  undergrowth,  and  the  thought  that  the  aspect 
of  it  all  had  hardly  changed  for  centuries  made  the 
scene  doubly  impressive. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  mainland  we  skirted  another 
island  and  stopped  to  see  the  deserted  camp  of  an 
Indian  family.  The  shore  was  low  and  wet,  and  there 
were  streaks  of  bushes,  and  occasional  trees.  Under 
one  of  the  trees  where  the  ground  was  a  trifle  higher 
than  that  round  about  was  the  frame  of  a  conical  wig- 
wam. The  family  had  evidently  left  the  day  before, 
and  back  in  the  bushes  were  some  of  their  household 
goods  covered  with  bagging,  and  under  another  clump 
was  a  birch  canoe.  Ben  poked  around  to  see  what 
treasures  he  could  find.  He  removed  the  strings  from 
a  pair  of  discarded  shoes,  and  he  picked  up  and  pocketed 
a  safety-pin  which  he  spoke  of  as  "a  squaw  pin."  I 
did  not  wonder  the  Indians  had  moved.  There  were 
remnants  offish  all  about,  from  which  pestiferous  clouds 


282     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

of  flies  arose  wherever  we  went,  and  the  stench  was 
insufferable. 

We  soon  embarked  once  more  and  resumed  our  row- 
ing, and  presently  arrived  at  the  spot  where  we  started. 

On  another  occasion  Ben  and  I  went  together  six 
miles  into  the  wilderness  along  the  lakeshore  to  a 
village  on  an  Indian  reservation.  We  followed  a  nar- 
row path  that  dodged  along  through  the  bushes  and  that 
constantly  turned  and  twisted  to  avoid  irregularities  of 
the  ground  and  whatever  obstructions  the  forest  growths 
made.  Some  of  the  detours  were  quite  recent  and  were 
necessitated  by  a  fallen  tree-top  that  one  could  not  easily 
step  over  or  go  under.  Such  obstructions  could  usually 
have  been  removed  in  a  few  moments  by  a  man  with  an 
axe;  but  the  trailmakers  preferred  to  go  around  rather 
than  exert  themselves  to  improve  the  path.  Travel- 
ling was  no  hardship  where  we  had  solid  ground  under 
foot.  It  was  another  matter  when  the  route  led  through 
swampy  hollows  and  we  had  to  jump  along  on  tufts  and 
roots  and  rotting  tree  fragments.  Ben  was  inclined  to 
be  contemplative  and  silent.  He  replied  readily  to 
questions,  but  he  had  the  racial  taciturnity.  It  was 
evident,  however,  that  the  woods  were  his  ancestral 
home,  and  that  he  felt  more  free  and  easy  there  than 
anywhere  else.  Little  incidents  were  constantly  occur- 
ring that  showed  his  real  interests  and  half-wild  char- 
acteristics. Once  we  encountered  a  couple  of  inoffensive 
calves  in  our  path.  They  looked  at  us  inquiringly,  and 


The  Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          283 

Ben  made  a  sudden  run  at  them,  and  chuckled  gleefully 
as  they  hurry-skurried  off  into  the  bushes.  Sometimes 
he  would  point  to  certain  tracks  in  the  path  —  a  dog's 
footprint,  the  mark  of  a  moccasin,  or  whatever  it  might 
be,  and  study  on  its  significance.  Once  he  called  my 
attention  to  a  rude  figure  of  an  Indian  cut  in  the  bark 
of  a  tree  by  his  father;  but  it  was  devoid  of  any  purpose. 
We  heard  the  partridges  drumming  and  Ben  stopped  to 
listen.  A  squirrel  ran  up  a  tree  and  sat  on  a  limb 
regarding  us  alertly.  Ben,  delighted  with  the  sight, 
called  to  it  in  his  native  language  and  got  out  a  pistol 
from  his  hip  pocket.  Luckily,  he  had  no  cartridges; 
yet  he  took  careful  aim  and  snapped  the  harmless 
weapon  and  exulted  in  the  thought  of  what  would  have 
happened  had .  it  been  loaded.  I  asked  him  about 
some  of  the  birds  we  heard  singing,  but  he  could  not  tell 
me  their  names,  except  that  they  were  "canaries  and 
other  birds." 

At  length  we  came  to  the  outskirts  of  the  Indian 
village.  Some  of  the  cabins  were  very  well  placed  on 
hills  that  afforded  a  wide  view  over  the  forest  and 
marshes,  and  over  the  inlets  and  broad  expanses  of  the 
lake.  They  were  much  scattered,  and  the  woods  inter- 
vening between  the  little  clearings  shut  them  away 
from  sight  of  each  other.  Most  of  them  were  beyond 
a  stream  a  dozen  rods  broad  that  connected  two  sec- 
tions of  the  lake.  At  the  mouth  of  the  stream  was  a 
boom  of  logs,  and  there  was  no  way  for  us  to  get 


284     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

across  except  by  walking  on  that.  It  was  precarious 
footing;  but  we  made  the  passage  in  safety,  and  Ben 
even  stopped  midway  to  look  at  some  large  fish  lazily 
breasting  the  current.  "Gee  !"  he  said,  "I  wish  I  had 
them." 

"Gee,"  was  his  favorite  exclamation,  though  he  some- 
times used  terms  more  coarse  and  violent. 

In  a  grove  on  one  of  the  hills  was  a  government  school. 
A  man  and  wife  educated  at  Carlisle  had  charge,  and 
there  were  about  forty  children  in  their  care.  The  main 
building  was  a  large,  well-built,  clapboarded  structure, 
and  round  about  were  various  log  barns  and  sheds.  It 
is  an  industrial  school,  and  besides  book  education 
the  boy  pupils  learn  how  to  care  for  cows  and  horses 
and  do  gardening,  and  the  girls  learn  to  sew  and  do 
housework.  The  children  are  allowed  to  visit  their 
homes  frequently,  but  are  urged  not  to  stay  long.  If 
they  do,  their  health  is  apt  to  suffer,  especially  in  winter; 
for  the  home  huts  are  very  hot  and  very  cold  by  spells, 
and  not  at  all  hygienic.  Some  of  the  children  accom- 
modate themselves  readily  to  school  life  and  discipline 
and  others  do  not.  Ben  said  he  tried  it  once,  but 
he  had  to  take  care  of  horses  the  whole  time,  and  he 
didn't  like  that  job,  and  quit.  The  boys  and  girls  were 
wandering  in  the  woods  and  by  the  waters,  and  I  thought 
they  seemed  to  be  having  a  very  free  and  easy  time;  but 
perhaps  it  is  best  that  way.  A  gray-haired,  bare- 
headed old  Indian  lay  under  one  of  the  trees  close  to 


The   Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          285 

the  school  smoking  a  large  red  pipe  shaped  like  a  ham- 
mer. There  he  reclined,  stoical  and  contented,  puffing 
away  with  much  the  same  peace  of  mind  and  enjoy- 
ment that  a  cow  has  in  chewing  its  cud. 

Ben  had  two  sisters  ten  and  twelve  years  of  age 
among  the  pupils,  and  they  returned  with  us.  They 
were  vigorous  and  erect,  bright-eyed  and  attractive; 
and  they  were  neatly  clothed,  but  did  not  put  on  any 
head  covering.  When  we  came  to  the  stream  we  all 
walked  the  boom.  Ben  escorted  the  girls  one  at  a 
time  along  the  wobbly  logs ;  but  the  older  maiden  when 
she  neared  the  end  of  the  boom  ran  on  alone  as  nimble 
as  a  squirrel  and  made  a  five-foot  jump  to  the  shore.  The 
girls  now  took  the  lead  and  swung  along  at  such  a  rapid 
walk  I  sometimes  had  to  take  a  little  run  to  keep  up.  It 
was  a  great  delight  to  them  to  get  away  from  the  school, 
and  they  chattered  and  laughed,  and  picked  and  ate 
some  of  the  abounding  wintergreen  berries.  In  the 
swampy  glades  they  gathered  great  bunches  of  cowslips, 
which  they  were  doubtful  whether  to  call  buttercups 
or  water  lilies.  They  tired  of  carrying  them  after  a 
time,  but  instead  of  throwing  them  carelessly  down  they 
set  them  upright  on  the  ground  as  if  the  flowers  had  grown 
there.  The  mosquitoes  swarmed  in  the  woods  every- 
where, and  the  younger  girl  partially  protected  herself 
from  them  by  putting  her  apron  over  her  head.  Ben 
gave  his  hat  to  the  other  to  wear. 

I  parted  with  my  companions  at  the  Indian  village 


286     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  continued  on  up  to  the  town  where  I  rested  for  a 
time  and  refreshed  myself  with  a  square  meal.  Then 
I  went  for  a  ramble  about  the  streets.  It  was 
evening  —  very  quiet  and  warm,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  dull  with  haze  from  forest  fires  and  pungent 
with  dust.  Every  one  was  outdoors.  The  young 
men  were  playing  ball;  the  children  were  running, 
laughing,  shouting,  and  disputing;  and  their  elders 
sat  at  the  house-fronts  visiting.  The  mosquitoes  had 
invaded  the  town,  and  smudges  had  been  resorted 
to  quite  freely  to  fend  off  the  pests.  I  even  saw  a 
smudge  on  the  windward  side  of  two  cows  in  a  little 
enclosure  back  of  one  of  the  log  houses.  The  cows 
stood  where  they  received  the  full  benefit  of  the  smoke 
and  seemed  quite  grateful  for  it.  Some  of  the  houses 
had  been  smudged  out  and  then  closed  up,  and  the 
inmates  awaited  bedtime  sitting  outside  gathered  about 
the  smudge  pail.  I  joined  one  of  these  groups,  which 
included  two  or  three  neighbors  besides  the  home 
family.  The  sun,  a  great  ruddy  orb,  was  sinking  be- 
hind the  pine  woods  in  the  west,  and  the  sky  above  it 
was  flushed  with  rosy  color  that  faded  into  saffron  and 
light  yellow,  and  then  into  softest  blue. 

When  the  sun  had  disappeared  and  the  twilight  had 
grown  dim,  one  of  the  neighbor  women  of  our  group 
rose  leisurely  and  said,  "Gosh !  I  must  go  home." 

Night  was  gathering  over  the  ragged  little  town  on 
the  sands,  and  the  gloom  of  the  serrated  forest  that 


OF  THE 


{    UNIVERSITY 

V  OF 


THE  FRAME  OF  AN  INDIAN  WIGWAM 


The  Headwaters  of  the  Great  River          287 

hemmed  it  in  on  every  side  was  deepening  into  black- 
ness. The  children  were  going  indoors,  the  ball  games 
had  ceased,  and  soon  the  vast  silence  of  the  wilderness 
was  almost  unbroken. 

NOTE.  —  Here  is  tourist  country  to  make  one  happy  —  forest  and 
Indians  and  lakes  and  streams  and  most  wonderful  fishing.  There  are 
hotels,  too,  which,  if  not  palatial,  are  at  least  comfortable ;  and  yet  you 
are  where  only  a  few  years  ago  was  almost  uninhabited  wilderness. 
What  if  a  good  deal  of  rawness  still  shows  itself  in  the  towns  —  that 
is  to  be  expected  and  only  adds  zest  to  the  situation  and  makes  the  ap- 
peal to  the  traveller  stronger.  This  northern  country  for  many  reasons 
deserves  the  attention  of  tourists,  especially  those  from  regions  long 
settled,  where  conditions  have  taken  on  permanence,  and  where  the 
beginnings  are  dim  with  remoteness. 


OF  THE    "^ 

UNIVERSITY 

r  x    -      OF 


•Tf.F 


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